


the green aesthete and the oxford carnation

by dandyholmes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 1895, Aestheticism, Case Fic, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/F, Gay Bashing, Green Carnations, Historical References, M/M, Missing Case, Oscar Wilde's Trials, Oxford, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Past Case Mentions, Queer History, Secret Relationship, Soft John Watson, and also friends with lesbians, blackmailing, lgbt history, soft Holmes, they're married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-12-27 19:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12087420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandyholmes/pseuds/dandyholmes
Summary: Watson sits down in 1925 to retell a story of his and Holmes's past, specifically from April and May of 1895. This case was kept under wraps until 50 years after Watson's death, left to be read by an era more willing to embrace the truth of his life with Sherlock Holmes. During the three trials in the spring of '95 with Oscar Wilde at the Old Bailey courthouse, Holmes and Watson vanished from London to the English countryside to find safety from oppressive eyes. A minor burglary case sparks an elaborate escape plan put in place for two young women not dissimilar to themselves.In this romance and adventure story, we see the mysterious untold story behind the serially published cases of the Victorian era. A love story between Holmes and Watson that has waited far too long to be told emerges effortlessly, and even in times of great societal struggle, they manage to maintain safety and happiness with the help of one another.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again!! I'm finally writing another fic, and it's quite different than the last. I am a true canon lover at heart, so this was something I randomly started writing one day and couldn't seem to stop. I hope you all greatly enjoy it!! 
> 
> Thank you very much to my wonderful editor and boyfriend Finnen 

Herein lies what truly transpired during the months of April and May in the year of 1895. If my post-humous requests have been maintained, no one other than Sherlock Holmes and myself should be reading these documents until, at least, 1975. These accounts will depict a different side of both myself and my lifelong companion, colleague, and friend, one that I cannot currently share with the living public.

Holmes had asked me not to document the following story in any fashion. I managed to keep that promise for 30 years. Now, in 1925, I write this solely for my records to be kept in the safety deposit box, not to be opened until at least 50 years after my death. I can only hope that one day, reading the truth of mine and Holmes’s life together may be viewed as the wonderful thing it is, rather than something “indecent.”

We were on the train to Hatherleigh in Okehampton, Devon, and throughout our entire journey, Holmes had a nervous composition. An apprehensive air surrounded him, and after a few moments of being lost in thought, he would grasp onto my pinkie finger. It was as if I anchored him somehow. I hoped for more signs that all was well in his mind, some verbal response, perhaps. Instead, I simply received a chilled hand against my own.

As we arrived, he finally spoke.

“Watson,” was all he said. A statement as some kind of reminder that I was still beside him.

“Hmm?” I responded in a hum.

Rather than getting an answer of words, I felt his thin arm reach around my back. My defensive mind forced me to make certain of what Holmes undoubtedly was already aware of; no one could be seen for miles. I leaned into him and laced my arm around his back as well.

The sun set over the earthy, unpaved country road, leaving shadows of trees upon our faces. After a silent, peaceful moment of this, I decided to say what was occupying my mind for far too long.

“I admit that I am having trouble understanding why you accepted a mere burglary case so far outside of London. Is that brilliant mind already wavering in your fourth decade?” I teased a bit to hide behind the inquiry of it. He knew my implication.

Holmes let out a sigh from deep within his chest and stared ahead, avoiding eye contact. “Our last journey to the Devonshire countryside was a rather high stakes one; life and death being placed in the balance. I thought that perhaps we could see more of the country’s beauty and appeal outside of our work this time around.”

“We had endless piles of telegrams detailing fascinating cases right in London, didn’t we? Typically you only take cases that require a holiday if work is particularly thin,” I mentioned. I prayed that I would not have to ask directly.

“There are times, my dear, when the rush of the city overwhelms me,” he admitted. _A bit closer to the truth now,_ I thought _._

“Do those times always happen to correlate with when well known men are going to trial for being sodomites?”

Holmes turned his head to face me and frowned. He took his time before any kind of response escaped his lips.

“I simply want to maintain our personal safety,” he finally explained.

“What about all of the men like us in London and across the country that can’t afford to go into hiding?” I asked.

“If I spent so much of my time worrying for all those like us that are in danger, I would no longer have time to live my own life.”

“I suppose you are right,” I admitted solemly. For the remainder of our walk towards Hatherleigh, we said nothing.

Five minutes later, we had to lift our heads off the other’s shoulders and bring our arms back to our sides. We approached the inn, checked into the room, and made our way up to the first floor. After dropping our bags off, we headed back down to the inn’s dining room to have a comforting, warm dinner. Holmes opted to eat very little, as was custom for the night before a case. Instead, he enjoyed a cup of coffee. There were little words exchanged between us, we merely existed in one another’s companionable quiet. At one point, though, Holmes went to speak to the innkeeper briefly. He was an older gentleman, with graying brown hair and a gentle smile. I could not overhear any of their discussion, but it was such a quick conversation, Holmes had already returned to our table by the time I had fully formulated my thought.

“What were you speaking to him about?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing really,” my friend said carelessly. “Merely inquiring about the culture of the area. Hatherleigh is rather new to me.”

I did not believe his answer, but felt prying was unnecessary at the moment.

Later that evening, we retired upstairs to sleep. Our room had two single beds, separated as is custom. We quietly pushed them together, and prepared for rest. As we lay together in the dark night air, Holmes spoke once more whilst resting atop my chest.

“Wilde will be convicted,” he stated simply. It stung in a deep corner of my chest. Many minutes passed as I attempted to form a reply.

“I know,” is all I settled for.

“Even if all intellectual and homosexual society rebelled, the government will still put him in prison.” He pauses for a moment. “In fact, the only object protecting us from the same fate is my abilities. If, at any point, Scotland Yard decided I was no longer useful to their case work, or the British government no longer cared for my assistance, we would be put in a trial just the same.”

Throughout our preparations for this journey, as well as our decision to take the case that caused it, neither one of us had admitted the truth of our situation. Often, it was not safe to do so. Hearing the words exit Holmes’s mouth, however, in such a matter-of-fact way, made my heart ache. I took a deep breath, and mustered up a response.

“We can only hope that day never comes.”

Holmes did not speak any further, we merely shut our eyes and attempted to let rest overtake us. The weight of him sat on my chest, keeping me grounded to the bed and to the world. Our breaths linked up as I slipped into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This intro chapter is rather short, but I promise I'll make up for it in the next one!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first case begins! This chapter is rather long and case heavy, but I hope you enjoy it still despite the lack of fluff

I awoke the next morning to Holmes racing back and forth in our compact room. He was fully dressed already, but his short, wavy hair was still askew. I smiled with a newly awake fog at this remarkable man I shared my life with, waiting for him to acknowledge that I was no longer asleep.

I checked my watch on the bedside table to see the time was 6 o’clock. The April sun peeked up from the east, and it was then when Holmes stopped for a moment to look at me.

“Good morning, John,” he said softly, despite his hectic state. I looked up at him, slowly rising to a seated position.

“Good morning, Sherlock.” The exchange of our respective Christian names was perfectly intimate for the time of day. As we were soon going to dive into the heart of a case, Holmes and myself wanted to take advantage of the brief private moments we were allotted. 

I rose from our bed and made my way to the washroom to tidy myself up. When I emerged a few moments later, Holmes was staring at the small mirror next to the wardrobe with a bottle of macassar oil in hand. He took immense care to slick back his unruly hair, and I watched from the threshold in astonishment. Mere seconds later, he noticed me staring at him.

“We do have somewhere to be rather soon, John. You may want to get yourself dressed rather than spend all morning watching me,” he remarked with a grin. I smiled back.

“Quite right,” I reply, pushing myself away from the wall I was leaning against. As I passed him to reach into the wardrobe, I left a small kiss on his nape. His eyes closed for a brief moment, as if relishing in the sensation. 

I dressed myself as he finished styling his hair, and before much longer we were ready to head to the home of our client. 

Her name was Florence Abernathy, a young woman who wrote to us with an issue of missing family heirlooms, namely brasswork, art, and jewelry. While it would have been entirely simple, something for the local police to look into, Holmes took an interest in the way she described the event of the burglary. 

_ Mr. Holmes,  _

_ I write to you with an issue puzzling myself and my family. I am visiting my three younger sisters and mother at my childhood home in Hatherleigh from where I now live in Brighton. I have been married to my husband now for over four years, but he was unfortunately unable to join me on my trip. _

_ Last Tuesday evening, my mother, my sisters, and I hosted a dinner party for a few family friends. All those in attendance I have known since birth, and one of whom is looking to marry my sister Abigail. She is the third born of the four of us, only 20 years of age, and is quite beautiful. Many men from neighbouring areas have pursued her, yet none have managed to fulfill a marriage. Some were pushed away by my mother due to only wanting the money my late father left us. Others simply could not get through to her, and eventually gave up hope. The man at our dinner party with an interest in her is named Theodore Parkinson, a man we grew up with due to his family’s acquaintance with ours. He is closer to my age, as he is 29, but he seems the perfect match for my sister. _

_ While Abigail expressed the simply perfect set up of this potential engagement, she appeared quite solemn inside. I would question her on the matter, and yet she would deny any negative emotions. She would simply repeat how thankful she is that someone she knows so well would want to be her husband.  _

_ On the evening of the dinner party, Abigail expressed that she had a headache, so one of our servants, Pepper, took her up to her bedroom to rest before the guests arrived. Moments later, all of the gas in the house completely ceased to function. Our groundskeeper went to examine the gas levels in the boiler room, as well as in our various lamps, but by the time he arrived to the boiler, the gas began working once more. Quickly after this, Abigail returned downstairs to say that she felt much better.  _

_ The dinner party continued on as normal for the evening, and all the guests had left by 9:45 that night. All five of us, as well as the servants, retired to sleep soon after.  _

_ The next morning, however, Pepper was appalled to find that many of our family treasures were nowhere to be found. Mother searched along with her in panic, and yet they were not to be seen. We assumed at first that it must have been one of our dinner guests, though none had left the table at any point other than to be escorted to the restroom. All the stolen items were on the second floor, whereas the dining room and washroom were on the ground floor. The more we thought of the possibilities, nothing seemed to fit. We spoke to each of our guests individually about if they had seen these items at any point, and they did not recognise any of them.  _

_ The local police searched the home and the grounds that Wednesday afternoon, but found no evidence of a forced entry to any vaults or the room holding the heirlooms.  _

_ Mr. Holmes, I can only hope you can find some solution to this mystery that has overcome my family. These items were quite precious to us, some of which being the only items left from my father. Please, if you can, offer us your assistance. _

_ Kindly, _

_ Florence Abernathy (née Bennett) _

The moment Holmes read the letter, he was full of excitement. He sent a telegram to Mrs. Abernathy that morning, and before I knew it, we were off to Devonshire. 

On this particular morning, Holmes and I made our way to the Bennett residence on the outskirts of the village. Our client greeted us with warmth.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” she welcomed. “And, of course, Dr. Watson! I, truly, cannot thank you enough for coming here on such short notice.”

“It is of no trouble to us, Mrs. Abernathy,” Holmes replied with a confident expression. I could see the excitement rushing through him, the thought of yet another adventure right at his fingertips. I beamed at him as subtly as my emotions would allow. 

“Please, do call me Florence,” she insisted.

Our hostess had a male servant take our hats and coats as we entered, placing them on a wooden coat stand. I could not help but notice the beauty of the mansion the moment we set foot inside. The dark wood lining the walls added a sense of comfort to the house. The rug in the foyer was a stunning shade of wine red, and it complemented the light walls perfectly. There were a combination of gas and oil light fixtures, all embellished with red tinted shades and brass. Spectacular paintings adorned the walls of the parlour where we were being escorted, and the fireplace was the perfect centrepiece to it all. Inside the parlour there were four women, save our client, sat amongst the various sofas and chairs. 

“Mother, sisters, this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson,” Florence introduced. “Gentlemen, this is my mother Jacqueline, and my sisters, Abigail, Emilia, and Clementine.” Holmes did not acknowledge them, so I smiled to show our combined greeting.

“This house is truly magnificent, Mrs. Bennett,” I said aloud without much thought. 

“Why thank you, Dr. Watson,” replied Mrs. Jacqueline Bennett. She had simply pinned up blonde hair with tints of grey throughout, and wore a deep green dress. “I decorated it myself back when Mr. Bennett and I first moved here. It is a home that has been passed down by family for generations, and after I married my late husband, it was left to me. Please, have a seat gentlemen.”

A servant—Pepper, I imagine—offered the both of us cups of tea that were graciously accepted. I sat myself down in a chair next to Holmes, and took my notepad out of my jacket along with a pen. My companion looked directly at our host and began to collect information.

“I have gathered,” began Holmes, “from the letter I received, a few hypotheses I would like to look into further. I will need you all to attempt to recall any and all pertinent details from that Tuesday evening as you are capable.” All five women nodded in agreement. “Thank you. Now, Abigail,” he said, gesturing to the red headed girl who sat across from us.

“Yes?” Abigail responded. Her voice was deeper than her sister, but quieter. 

“At what time did you retire to your bedroom with Pepper?” Holmes inquired.

“About… quarter to five, I should think.”

“And, Florence,” Holmes says, turning back to our client. “When did the gas go out in the house?”

“I should think it was… around half past five,” she replied. 

“The dinner began when?”

“Quarter to seven,” Florence said frankly.

Holmes contemplated for a moment in silence, leaving the women in suspense. His features were narrow, focused, and intense. I kept my eyes on him until he spoke once again.

“I would like to examine your boiler, please,” Holmes requested. 

“Why yes, of course,” Florence’s mother, Mrs. Bennett answered, coming to a standing position off the sofa. “I will get Jacob to join you.” The male servant, Jacob, who took our coats as we arrived, nods to us. He is a stout gentleman—early 30’s by the looks of it—who is well-kept and in good spirits. Despite his more casual attire, he is groomed and has a wonderful moustache, not dissimilar to my own.

“If you would not mind,” Holmes began while rising from his chair. “I would like you, Florence, to join myself and Watson as well.”

Florence nodded and the four of us made our way to the underground boiler room in the back of the house. Jacob left us to our investigation and departed back to his work. Holmes immediately removed his jacket, now adorned only in his waistcoat and white shirt, and walked around the cylindrical object carefully, looking closely for anything of note. Suddenly, he crouched down to the ground to examine the underside of it. The two of us stood, simply waiting for his conclusion. After much inspection, Holmes rose to stand before us, dusting off his front.

“Anything interesting, Mr. Holmes?” asked our client. 

For a brief second, I spotted the smallest grin upon Holmes’s face, though it quickly fades to a serious expression.

“Florence, who precisely would have been able to reach this boiler room at half past five?” Holmes asked. It was common for my partner to answer a client’s question with yet another question.

“Well,” she began. “We do not keep the door to this room locked as I’m sure you noticed upon our entry, so truly anyone could have come in here. However, I was in the study at the time, practicing on our piano. I believe Emilia and Clementine were out in the garden walking among the grounds to pass the time before dinner. Abigail, of course, was upstairs with Pepper, and my mother was in the dining room, perfecting the decour. She is always so meticulous in her presentations.”

Holmes shut his eyes to process the information, as well as, I imagine, picturing the map of the house in his mind. The hallway leading to the boiler room was connected to the kitchen, and further down led to the dining room which is across the way from the parlour, where we were at the beginning of our visit. The study is directly beside the parlour. The staircase is in the centre of the house, separating the major rooms of the household, and the ground floor washroom is down the hallway next to the study. Therefore, from what I could note after Florence’s description, her mother would have been the closest to the boiler room. 

Despite this, however, Holmes asks an entirely new question. 

“May I see your back garden?”

The question initially takes Florence by surprise, but she ultimately accepts. We were shown to the back garden area at the end of the hallway, and there was a staircase leading to a terrace on the second floor. It was moderately sized, though not large enough to make the house feel imbalanced. Holmes ran up the flight of stairs in a sprint, showing just how much excitement rushed through his veins. The two of us follow him up, greeted by a beautiful marble terrace. There is no furniture at the moment given the inevitable spring rains, but it is stunning on its own. My friend turns towards the door opening back into the house, and moves swiftly onto the first floor. The doorway to the terrace is at the end of a hall on the first floor, with multiple closed doors lining both sides. 

“Which bedroom is closest to this terrace?” he asked Florence.

“Erm, I would say my old bedroom… or Abigail’s. Our bedrooms are opposite one another,” she answered with a slight tone of confusion. 

Holmes laughed in a low rumble to himself, and I could see the dots connecting in his head. “Interesting. And the room with the family heirlooms is on the second floor, correct?”

“Yes.”

“May we see it, if you please?” Holmes requested. Florence nodded and quickly led us up to the storage room. She maneuvered her hand to push against a hidden compartment on the wall beside the door, and inside it there was a key. She opened up the room, and it was packed full of expensive antiques, paintings that were hundreds of years old, brass pieces, jewelry, and other fine works. 

“Why do you keep all these marvelous things locked up?” I asked her.

“Many of these items are hundreds of years old, passed down from my mother and father’s families equally. Some are personal belongings, others are collectibles. My mother wanted to maintain their worth and beauty as long as possible, so the most precious things remain locked in this windowless room for safe keeping,” Florence explained.

Holmes stepped carefully into the room, and I could immediately see his eyes travel from object to object. After a moment of this, he stopped observing and promptly turned to our client.

“Florence, I would like to request that myself and Dr. Watson could speak to Abigail in private.”

“Well, of course, Mr. Holmes. Please follow me back downstairs to the study, and I will bring her to you,” Florence offered. We followed our client down the staircase to the study and found chairs to sit in. She vanished for a moment to collect her sister, and quickly returned to shut the door for more privacy. The young woman looked confused by the isolation of it, and I must admit I was as well.

“Tell me, Abigail, do you happen to have mechanical knowledge of any kind?” Holmes asked. 

“Why, yes, actually. I enjoyed reading about it as an adolescent, and our father was well-versed in the topic. Mother despised my intrigue with it, though. Not ladylike, you see. So, after a few weeks, I was forced to stop any studying of the subject,” she explained. Abigail had almost caught up to her confusion, however, and was not nearly as excited by the solution as Holmes. “You cannot be suggesting I would turn off the gas? Why? Are you saying I stole the heirlooms as well?”

“Miss Bennett, it is rather simple, is it not?” Abigail had a puzzled, agitated expression on her face once more. “Allow me to explain, then. You expressed to me in your letter that your sister seemed displeased about potentially marrying your childhood friend, despite her words saying otherwise.”

“Yes,” Abigail confirmed. “What could that possibly have to do with stealing from my own home?!” 

“Be patient, please. You were putting up an appearance of joy, despite your expressions and attitudes giving off the opposite impression. Given how yourself and your sisters have been raised, you most likely are accustomed to keeping more intimate emotions to yourself. You have regularly rejected the idea of marrying the many men who have pursued you for seemingly no reason as well, according to your sister’s letter. There must be some reason that you do not wish to be married, one that you are afraid to confess even to your siblings. This was easy to understand from Florence’s letter alone. You have a secret, and there were various possibilities of what said secret could be.”

Abigail frowned, but remained silent.

“Your entire family was preparing for this dinner party on Tuesday evening, and you knew your newest suitor would be present. You were afraid he may propose to you at any moment, and wished to find a way to avoid it at all costs. Therefore, on the afternoon prior to the party, you complained of a headache. This gave you the privacy of your bedroom without risk of interruption. 

“You could not take action with your plan immediately, or else you would quickly be found out. So, you waited forty-five minutes before doing anything suspicious. With the help of Pepper, you made her way down to the boiler room without being seen. You knew the basic functionality of a boiler from your studying as an adolescent, so you could easily turn the gas off momentarily without any issue. You knew this would stop food preparations for at least ten to fifteen minutes, as well as cause chaos and confusion for five. This was just enough time to journey back up the terrace, rush to the room with the photographs and various heirlooms, and get Pepper to hide them in an agreed spot. As this occurred, you could make your way down to the boiler room to turn the gas back on before Mr. Morris could reach it.”

Abigail looked unbearably offended by Holmes’s words. “Why would I do such a thing? And why would our servant  _ assist  _ me? I should have you removed from my home, Mr. Holmes!” she exclaimed. She stood up from her seated position and began pacing anxiously across the study.

“Now, now, give me a moment,” Holmes responded. “I have yet to reach the heart of the issue, Miss Bennett.”

“And what, precisely, would that be?”

“The heart, of course, is the ‘Why?’ you continue to ask. The answer is rather simple. You knew that Theodore wished to marry you to insure his financial security. Your family is still resting happily upon your father’s fortune, and his is not in the same state.”

“How can you be so certain of this?” she pried, continuing to pace.

“Well, Watson and myself stayed at his family’s inn last night,” he admitted. I was unaware of this, yet unsurprised by it. “During our supper, I found time to speak to the innkeeper, Theodore’s father. Business has been rather slow in this part of the country in the last few years.” I instantly recalled the moment from the night before. “However,” Holmes continued. “You were unsettled by yet another suitor for more than just financial reasons. I must ask, Miss Bennett, how long has Pepper been employed at your home?”

“She… er… she grew up here with her parents. Both passed away when she was rather young, so my mother and father took her under their wing.”

“Ahh,” Holmes sighed. “Of course. You see, Abigail, you and I are not so different.”

“How do you mean that?”

“To put it delicately, I believe you do not wish to marry any of these men because your heart lies elsewhere,” Holmes explained. “Perhaps towards someone you would trust enough to assist you in the most dire of cases.” I understood the direction he was going and had to hide my intrigue. Abigail’s face grew pale and flush with fear, yet her defenses remained. “And if you stole your most prized family heirlooms, making your sisters and mother believe a significant portion of the fortune was lost, then Theodore would have no reason to ask for your hand in marriage.”

The young woman’s expression was frozen with terror at my partner’s words, yet she could not speak to respond. In that moment, I knew the case had been solved.

“Abigail, I am certain you know what I am implying. And, I must promise you now that the truth of it shall not leave this room. I swear to you that neither yourself nor Pepper will be punished, as you have not committed a crime. Do not do anything to confirm my hypothesis, simply know my words are truth,” Holmes said, staring her directly in the eyes. “Now, I in no way can prevent Mr. Parkinson from asking your hand in marriage. However, I can secure you lodgings and employment within London if you so wish for it.”

“You would do that for me, Mr. Holmes?” Abigail asked, anxiety shedding from her face.

“I’m certain that those lodgings could do with a servant, as well, Miss Bennett. One that, perhaps, you trust and know well enough to keep you content,” Holmes continued, only making the young woman gain colour and excitement in her face. “Simply say the word, and you will have stable work in a high-paying hat factory along with lodgings in London.” He took my notepad from my hands, ripping a blank page from its contents, and I handed him my pen. Quickly, Holmes scribbled something on the page and handed it to Abigail. “This is my address. Send me a telegraph within the month stating your decision, and I will have you living in London by the end of the summer.”

“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Holmes, I truly can’t!” she exclaimed, and I smiled. 

“It is of no object to me, Miss Bennett. Now, go back to your family.”

Abigail leaves the study with a swift step and a smile. Holmes and myself are left alone for a brief moment, and I take the chance to confirm what I have understood here.

“She is…” I whispered, “She is like us, then?” 

“The best I can do, my dear Watson, is to create an alternative ending that will ensure the safety of those women,” Holmes declared, and I could already see the gears shifting in his mind.

“How do you plan on obtaining a job and lodgings for her?” 

“All around London, I have empty lodgings kept for me as places to escape from potential threats. Given the publicity of our address, there may be a time in which Baker Street is not safe. I imagine giving up one of many will not hinder our safety too dearly, and it will greatly enhance hers. In terms of the employment, Mycroft has pulled various strings for my benefit in the past, and he is known to bend to my whim. He has connections to the men that own the most prominent hat factories in London, so it should not be too difficult for my brother.”

“I did not know you were so charitable to those you have just met,” I commented with a smile.

“I am not a policeman, Watson. You are aware that my view of justice does not adhere solely to the law, but to morality. If Abigail Bennett remains living in this small village in the country, there is no guarantee she will be able to escape the bonds of an unloving marriage eventually. The only way I can be certain that will not occur is if I offer my assistance.”

My companion’s words brought joy to my heart, and while he expressed each word with a certain level of stoicism, I knew he was sincere. I sat, watching him, for a few moments as his formulated a plan to defuse this innocent issue with his eyes shut. Finally, Holmes opened his eyes and turned to me with a smile. 

“My dearest Watson,” he began, admittedly making some added colour spread across my cheeks. “I need you to do something for me whilst I distract our hosts.”

Holmes explained the plan in great detail to me, and I agreed with enthusiasm. Moments later, he was exiting the study and walking to the parlour where Florence, Abigail, and their mother were sitting. He proceeded to ask them to gather the remaining two sisters, as well as Jacob and Pepper to explain the details of the case. He would create the story, and I would set the scene. 

My first objective was to make my way to Abigail’s bedroom and collect the items. I was then to climb the staircase as carefully as I could, and place the items in the storage room in places they were not meant to be, allowing for the assumption that they had fallen and become scattered underneath other objects whilst Pepper and Mrs. Bennett searched for them. A simple solution to a complex problem. Upon my return after sending a telegram to my surgery in London—that of which I no longer own, but this is not something our client’s family need know—Holmes would escort the family up to the second floor and show them where each object is hidden. His justification for how he knew about their location would be based on his brief visit to the room prior to speaking with Abigail. 

As the plan came to a close, the family was relieved. Florence did have one more question, however.

“All of this is rather simple at its core, but how can one explain the gas turning off?”

“Boiler malfunctions are truly quite normal in these older English homes, Florence. These houses were not built with gas heat and lighting in mind, so there are occasions in which they are faulty,” Holmes says with a nonchalant air. I fear that it will be too simple to them, that the women will not be pleased with our falsified answer.

Much to my joy however, the Bennett women, as well as Pepper, thanked us for our time and assistance. Abigail specifically shook both mine and Holmes’s hands upon our departure, and I felt more at peace than was typical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my boyfriend and editor, Finnen.
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is much less case focused, and I hope you all enjoy it!

By the time Holmes and myself returned to the main road of Hatherleigh, it is well into the afternoon. We made our way to the inn to have afternoon tea, and Holmes’s adrenaline off a newly solved case was clear by how quickly he walked towards our lodgings. As usual, I managed to keep up with only a stride separating us. He turned to me for a moment, walking backwards rather impressively.

“What do you think, Watson? Shall we stay in the country for the week?” he asked, turning around again when he finished.

I was taken aback for only a second, as I caught up to his reasoning just as quickly as I caught up to his walking pace. “I suppose there is no harm in it,” I replied.

“I shall arrange a cottage on the coast for us in a few days time, then. Perhaps we can explore the complex history of the English peninsula and the past cultures that inhabited it,” he continued with fervor. There was a sparkle in his eye that made my heart soar, since in the weeks leading up to this particular adventure, his mood was quite the opposite.

“That sounds lovely, Holmes,” I added.

The two of us reached the inn’s dining room, greeted with tremendous smells of mince and shepherd’s pies, sausages, and roasted potatoes. The combination of scents reminded me of Mrs. Hudson’s meals in Baker Street and brought warmth to my chest.

As we found seats in the dining room, I had time to properly look at Holmes’s passionate expression.

“Since we are officially done with today’s case, will you eat something, Holmes?”

“I suppose if it soothes my Boswell’s nerves,” he replied with a brisk grin.

—

Afternoon tea was rather pleasant, so Holmes and I spent the remainder of the daylight walking around the countryside. We returned to the inn for dinner that evening. After enjoying some brandy with the innkeeper—whom I discovered was named John as well—and his charming wife, Holmes and I retired to our room.

I removed my clothing, adorning myself in comfortable pyjamas before I lay down on our bed. I watched as Holmes wet his hair in the water basin, removing the oil from his curls, and put his own sleepwear on when he was finished. As he closed the wardrobe and turned to get into our shared bed, a knowing smile grew on his lips.

“All day you have been observing me with the equal intensity in which I observe a crime scene,” he commented as he lifted the covers to lie beside me and turned off the lamp on his bedside table.

“I must admit, you are rather fascinating, my dear,” I said. His eyes met mine as he wrapped his gaunt arm across my chest, resting his head upon my shoulder.

“Am I truly as intriguing to you as a crime scene is to myself?”

“I would argue that you may be even more so,” I teased. The smirk upon Holmes’s face grew wider, and he brought his right hand up to my jaw to pull me into a kiss. His lips were soft against my own and the weight of the day melted with each second. When we separated, our eyes met and the world surrounding us ceased to exist for a brief second.

“I love you dearly, John,” he confessed in a soft tone. I had heard the words before, in the early hours of the morning following particularly passionate evenings. Or after the events of the case of the Speckled Band in which emotions were heightened and we finally got to the root of our feelings towards one another. I had heard my companion say this phrase many times over the years, and yet it ran chills through my spine to hear them again.

“I love you the same, Sherlock,” I whispered as my fingers passed through his loose hair. I gently leaned my head down, so my lips could meet his forehead, and he hummed in approval.

Holmes returned to his original position atop my torso, and all felt balanced in our world. In that moment, we did not think about the terrifying trial between Oscar Wilde and the Marquess of Queensberry. We did not concern ourselves with the dangers outside our small, temporary living quarters. In the short minutes before sleep overtook us, all that occupied our minds was one another.

—

Three days passed uneventfully, and it was then time to walk the half mile to the train station, on our way to Wembury in the southern peninsula. The rocky beaches seemed appealing to my need for relaxation, as well as Holmes’s need for mental stimulation and discovery. He had been there before as a young child, so I was intrigued to see somewhere attached to a time before I knew him. He typically disliked any discussion of it, as his parents were long passed, and he felt detached from the individual he was as when he was young.

As we boarded the train, we had our luggage taken care of before taking our seats in a private first class cabin. Holmes was dressed in a light grey suit, perfect for spring, and I wore one of a taupe colour. His hat matched the suit, and was Cahill in style. Mine was my favourite bowler cap. I must say, our attire was well coordinated.

I looked up at my companion to see his eyes already upon me and a grin spread across his face.

“What is it?” I asked.

“I have decided to take up your habit of staring at the man I care for,” he responded in a hush.

I scoffed playfully and tapped his right leg with my walking stick. He chuckled softly, however a pensive expression overcame his features almost instantly. I knew what must have been causing it, so I asked the question both of us had been avoiding.

“Did you receive any new from Mycroft about the trial?” I inquired with a mild anxiety in my heart.

“I was given a telegram from my brother this morning by the innkeeper just before we left for the station, though I have yet to open it,” Holmes answered. “I thought it better to wait until we were in private.”

“Well, then you must open it now, Holmes,” I encouraged calmly.

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and revealed the small envelope in which the telegram was concealed. He broke the seal upon it, and opened it up to read.

“Sherlock,” Holmes began, looking at the paper. “As of the fifth of April, W has lost against Q. W awaits potential charges and a second trial. More news forthcoming, Mycroft.”

For a few moments, my friend merely kept his eyes locked to the message. I remained quiet, uncertain of how to respond. The local newspapers had said nothing related to the case, as only London papers found interest in the issue. So, these few words were our only source of information on the subject. I had not anticipated the trial to conclude so swiftly, but our safety was very much at risk regardless. Mycroft’s words of a second trial and potential charges only fueled the fear in me further. As I lost myself in negative thoughts, Holmes finally spoke.

“I am afraid, my dear Watson, that this is precisely the result I anticipated.” The words break my heart. His tone is defeated, lacking the enthusiasm I experienced from him just days prior. Perhaps he was allowing himself to forget the reality of it all for a time, or simply detaching from our life in London. Now, however, he was far beyond aware. Now, he was afraid.

“Why can’t Wilde find some way to escape?” I demanded, whilst still keeping my voice hushed. “Surely he has acquaintances on the continent to offer him salvation, far from this persecution.”

Holmes let out a deep sigh, “Knowing the pride and confidence the playwright displays, I feel he will not opt for escape. He will wish to face the battle, regardless of consequence. The criminal justice system of the British Empire, however, is unfortunately not forgiving enough to allow him a victory.”

I found his words to be much more removed than he typically was with me while in the privacy of one another’s space. He spoke about it as he often spoke to clients. A frank, unemotional tone. This only added to the pain I was feeling, and I could not stand it.

“I am going to sit in the dining car for a bit, I think,” I said, standing and moving towards the door of the cabin. “I need some form of nourishment. Feel free to join me if you wish.”

Holmes took his hands to a steepled position under his chin and shut his eyes. He leaned back against the deep green fabric of the seat and said nothing. I took that as an appropriate answer, and made my way to the dining car.

I was not cross or angry with him by any means, no. If I was angry at anyone, it was the Marquess of Queensberry, as he was the one who caused the man I love to be terrified of the one city he calls home. Whilst I enjoy holidays, and am accustomed to living anywhere due to my military background, Holmes dislikes change. This was true then and remains true now. The Marquess, as well as the courts of the United Kingdom, were endangering Holmes’s, as well as my own, ability to be content in our home. He was already becoming rather restless at the inn we inhabited at Hatherleigh, but we stayed there for a mere few days. Now, with a second trial imminent, there was no way to tell when my companion and I could return to 221B.

The dining car was rather empty, as was the train overall, since we had yet to reach the first stop. I ordered myself a brandy despite the early hour of the day, and I was thankful for the lack of questioning by the waitress. I sat in my own contemplative silence for quite some time, gradually taking sips from my glass. I found myself thinking of an alternate London, much different than our own. One where the public would scoff at the thought of putting someone on trial for their sexual behaviour, where men and women like myself and Holmes could live at peace. Perhaps, in this alternative London, happy partners could show their affection outside of the confines of a private home, brothel, or bathhouse. The idea warmed my soul, regardless of how foolish it may be.

Whilst lost in my own imagination, I suddenly found Holmes sat across from me in the dining car.

“Oh,” I said, reflexively. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Less than two minutes, my dear Watson. Do not fret,” he replied. “I simply did not wish to disturb your thoughts.”

“They were rather fantastical, I must say. It is time for me to step down to earth once again.”

“There are times where the world we inhabit is too dull for our imagination to endure. I know that more than anyone,” he stated with a comforting glance. His words no longer felt clinical and unfeeling, but rather warm and charming.

“Quite right,” I agreed, looking into his eyes with a tinge of solace. After a beat of silence, Holmes spoke again.

“Is your mind eased enough to return to our cabin?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

His lips formed into a small smile, one for my eyes alone, and the two of us walked back to our private quarters.

—

The cottage Holmes and I were to stay in at Wembury was perfectly quaint and welcoming. With two bedrooms of equal size, Holmes determined to utilize the second, unused room as a study. The parlour had the ideal amount of space for the two of us, surrounding a brick fireplace as the hearth. Thankfully for the both of us, I had gained a moderate culinary skill from spending various afternoons with Mrs. Hudson whilst Holmes was out following a lead of some kind. My abilities were limited to that of beef stew, eggs, mince pies, toast, and sausage. However, it was enough to suit my typical diet along with Holmes’s selective one.

Though my readers may not think this in any way characteristic of my companion, Holmes did, in fact, adopt the domesticity of our cottage with ease. One morning in particular, I awoke to the smell of fresh tea and an empty space in the bed beside me. I wandered down the hall to find my partner stirring cream into two cups. He had heard me leave the room—he always did—yet he kept a focused gaze on the task at hand. Once he stirred both adequately, his eyes met mine.

“Good morning, my dear,” he said calmly as he handed me my cup.

I could not find words, for a moment, to articulate the way my chest filled with adoration for this man. This man whom the world viewed as a machine, an impossible genius. This man who wore a deep burgundy dressing gown over grey silk pyjamas, and handed me a cup of tea at half past seven in the morning. The words took time to form, but I finally found them.

“You are truly magnificent,” I stated as fact. His reaction was not what I was looking for, though. Instead of happy, he looked minorly confused.

“I’m magnificent for making you tea? Really, John, I must hope your praises are not as easily gained as the public jests,” he replied, somewhat tauntingly. After the sentences exited his mouth, however, he leaned forward to place a gentle kiss upon my lips. A grin formed on my face, knowing he had accepted my complement. He pulled back afterwards, took a small sip from his cup, and made his way to the sofa in the parlour. I followed and sat beside him, our sides touching.

“Would you like to go to the beach today?” I asked him, placing a warm hand on his knee.

“There are some truly fascinating rock formations along Wembury’s beaches I could examine,” he answered with a hidden enthusiasm.

“I will cook some eggs and beans for breakfast, then,” I offered.

“Before you begin with that, I should think the both of us need to get dressed,” Holmes mentioned. I nodded in agreement, quickly finished the remainder of my tea as he did the same, and then took my companion by the hand to our bedroom to dress for the day.

—

The beach that day was lovely. April’s chilled winds passed through us with ease, and the ever-present English clouds overhead were rather calming. Holmes’s arm was intertwined with my own as we paddled along the shoreline. We only felt the cold beach water every other time the tide came in, and it quickly became soothing as opposed to jarring with its temperature. Our trouser legs were rolled up a bit to avoid the wetness, and everything felt at ease.

Holmes was excitable due to his fascination with the history of Wembury. He went on endlessly and passionately about the most niche details he could muster, and every word drew me in further with love. Seeing him so engulfed in study always brought joy to me, it was his natural state. He was comfortable and truly himself in those times.

I listened to all his words and retellings with care, occasionally drifting into my imagination. Thankfully, due to the time of year, the beaches were mostly barren. Many were too occupied, tending to their farms and their families to wander along the shore as we were. It added a sense of freedom to the relaxing adventure, and allowed me to become truly engrossed in my own contentment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this more relaxed chapter, it was very nice to write. Any feedback is always welcome, and kudos/comments are always appreciated 
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)
> 
> [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some interesting plot developments take Holmes and Watson by surprise. Hope you all enjoy!

On the morning of April 20, I awoke to find Holmes sat beside me, fully clothed, with a letter in hand. Initially, I thought it was from Mycroft once again; perhaps we had received news on the Wilde case. However, as I regained my sense, I realised the flamboyant scrawl of a signature upon the bottom of the page. Certainly not something the systematic Mycroft Holmes would do. I sat up silently to see what Holmes could possibly be so drawn in by, and was able to read what was written.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I am afraid time is running out. Pepper and myself cannot be here much longer, as we are afraid questions may start to arise. I do not wish to overstep what is appropriate, but you must understand the emergency of the situation. I can only hope you receive this letter at a reasonable date. If you are wondering why the sudden urgency, it is primarily due to my mother. She is an understanding woman, so I imagined she would empathise with my need to move to the city. I mentioned the necessity of bringing Pepper along, as well, which may have been my biggest mistake._

_My mother was appalled by my statements, saying that I was only allowed to leave Hatherleigh when I get married. Now, she is searching for suitors even more rigorously than before, and I am unnerved by the possible results._

_You are a brilliant man, Mr. Holmes, as I am certain you are aware. Would it be possible for you to think of some form of escape method for Pepper and myself to get away from my family home? This may be foolish of me to request, as you may disagree with the morality of it, but I see no other possible solution at this time._

_Please, Mr. Holmes, would you be willing to help me? You have already offered me so much, so this is the last thing I will ask of you._

_Thank you kindly,_

_Abigail Bennett_

Holmes peered over at me after I finished reading the letter, with one eyebrow raised.

“Mycroft forwarded to this cottage after it arrived at Baker Street.”

“You must send her our new address, then. This is too important to waste time with such things,” I said.

“What do you think, John, shall we help the poor girls?” he asked jestingly. I knew he would regardless, given his impulsive decision to offer Abigail all that he did within one day of having her acquaintance. It was more a question of _how_ he was going to assist them.

“I should think there is no other choice in the matter,” I stated frankly.

“For some, there may be. But for us, no I suppose there is not.”

“Do you have any ideas then?” I asked. “For this escape plan of theirs?”

“In the time it took for you to wake, I contemplated a few,” he said with his typical mischievous air.

“Please shine a light on it, for me, dear,” I requested with a flirtatious grin.

“Well,” he began with confidence. “Physically escaping the Bennett home is not the difficult part here. While Abigail’s mother may object to her leaving for London, she placed no restraint on the action itself. The young women can, quite easily, leave the Bennett mansion without issue, unless circumstances have changed since the writing of this letter. The complicated part then becomes that I am her London contact, but am not in London and will not be for an undetermined amount of time. I could not justify sending two women to a city they are unfamiliar with, to lodgings they have never seen, without being present myself. It simply would not be right. Additionally, it may be safer for the two of them at the moment in comparison to us, but that does not mean the climate of London’s justice system is in any way welcoming as of late. How can I, especially given my remote location, insure their safety when ours is so clearly in danger?

“So, I must have them escape to a temporary holding village of some kind, much like where we are currently residing, before they can reach London,” Holmes explained. “Then, I need to decide on a means to inform them of when and where we shall meet once the four of us can safely reach the city. Some quick signal that will be established beforehand to make certain we all meet when we need to. We are their protection, but they are ours equally. Whilst they are two decades our junior, they are still women easily used to distract the public from our inclinations temporarily. If we arrive in London with two attractive women by our side, there will be no questions as to our absence from the city. Therefore, we must arrive at the same date in the same place.”

It was not overly complicated in comparison to other plans we had created in the past, but it was the most emotionally weighted of them all. These women we did not know well whatsoever were trusting Holmes’s judgement to get them to safety. This required planned lodgings for undetermined periods of time, as well as many train journeys. I processed his words before giving any form of response.

“It really could work, then,” I confirmed.

“I believe it will, as long as our discretion prevails,” Holmes agreed.

“You must write back to her immediately, then, Sherlock. She is at risk of facing a forced marriage if we don’t act in haste.”

My partner nodded and set the letter aside. He arose from the bed and made his way to the second bedroom—his study—presumably to write his response. I allowed him privacy for the time, and instead of following him, went to fetch myself some morning coffee and breakfast.

—

Holmes remained in the study for some time. I had long finished my coffee and toast, was already dressed for the day, and was occupying my mind with the morning paper when Holmes finally emerged from his study with the folded letter, addressed and sealed within a simple envelope.

“Do you want to accompany me to the post office?” he asked gently.

“I suppose I should stretch out my legs,” I stated, setting my paper aside and joining Holmes outside our small cottage.

The two of us had spent little time in the village of Wembury since we arrived. The main road was rather charming—and larger than Hatherleigh, I noted—lined with small novelty shops and a local public house. The post office was quaint and welcoming, not like the decadent ones of London. Holmes and I entered to be greeted by a charming young woman, the secretary I imagine, whom welcomed us with a smile.

“Hello, gentlemen,” she started. “What services will you be requiring this morning?”

“Merely a letter drop-off is all,” Holmes responded politely, placing it upon the counter.

“Easily done, sir,” she insured. There was a brief pause from her before, “Sir, am I not mistaken when I think you are the detective Sherlock Holmes?”

My companion had an expression of dread form on his face that faded just as quickly as it arrived. He composed himself as fast as he could before answering the naïve woman.

“Er, why yes. You would be correct,” Holmes confirmed curtly.

The woman gawked in astonishment, “You, sir, are brilliant! All of your cases _amaze_ me! I cannot imagine why you would grace Wembury of all places with that brain, I really can’t. Is it a truly fascinating case, is it?”

Holmes’s nerves were clearly worsening the more she spoke—not to any fault of her’s—so I decided it was my time to take over and slowly move us out of the post office.

“Thank you very much for the compliment,” I said, turning the two of us towards the door.

“Oh! You must be Dr. Watson, then! Tell me, is living with him as interesting as you make it seem?” she hopped between subject matter at a baffling pace.

“Ah, yes, very much so,” I affirmed, moving Holmes and I further away from the counter.

“Well, of course, it must be! Bah, I should leave you to it then, gentlemen. Wembury is happy to have you!” She shouted the last bit to us as we escaped out the door.

Before I could react or tend to Holmes’s state, my companion was walking speedily in the direction of our cottage without thought to any of his surroundings. I followed in kind, knowing we could face the issue in our own privacy.

—

Back at the cottage, Holmes was spread across the sofa with his eyes snapped shut.

“Holmes, is everything all right? That woman was rather jarring, but did she truly affect you to this extreme in those short minutes?” I pried, hoping for some kind of response.

My partner allowed a sigh to leave his lips, eyes remaining closed. I knew the cause of his silence. If one woman at the post office could cause such a fuss so quickly over our mere presence in Wembury, then it would not take much time for our location to become public knowledge. If that occurred, we would instantly be at risk for discovery and questioned as to the cause of our occupance. Once we revealed no true reason other than a holiday, we would then become temporary staple figures of the town. The more individuals knew of us, the more risk there was of sources in London realising our escape.

Suspicions related to Holmes and my own true nature were not uncommon—nor unfounded—by 1895. We had been working together for over fourteen years by that time, and whilst the public believed I was married for the late 1880’s and early 1890’s, I was in fact just living within Baker Street. We managed to keep it under wraps the majority of the time, however I was involved in far too many cases to be a believable married man. Ever since Holmes returned from his hiatus after his encounter with Professor Moriarty in Switzerland, it became public knowledge that my wife—despite her fictitious nature—had passed on. By 1895, many people wondered why I had not remarried. Our escape during Mr. Wilde’s trial was not simply out of hypothetical danger, but due to a genuine rationalisation of true suspicions.

After many silent moments, long after I had given up any hope of reply, utterly lost in my own thought, he spoke.

“We must find ourselves a case, Watson.” The melancholy overtaking his tone was the most shocking aspect of what he said. The words themselves, I had heard many times before and would hear many times after. But the tone, the sadness behind the clause haunted me.

“How do you propose we do that?” I asked innocently, avoiding the grim nature of it all.

“I will have Mycroft forward all existing case requests from outside of London to this cottage. We can select a fitting one from there,” he stated blankly. It felt clinical and wrong. He wasn’t crawling for a case like he was known for in this moment. He was enjoying the calm and lack of any storm whatsoever. I could sense his serene mood and it warmed my heart. His fear was tearing that contentment from him.

“So,” I began, “We must follow the case, rather than follow our own curiosity.”

Holmes finally looked into my eyes. The dread behind his irises burned into my soul, and I knew the pain he was contemplating. “I am afraid, my dear Watson, that is the only way to maintain safety.”

The word safety rotted my eardrums. Safety had become synonymous with fear, with hiding away from the risks of the world and those who inhabit it. Safety was not, by any means, the life Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are meant to live. Safety was poison, was danger, was prison.

Rather than expressing my rage before my solemn lover, however, I simply said, “Then it shall be so.”

—

When the telegrams and letters from Baker Street arrived at our cottage, the mass of papers overwhelmed me. We brought them all into the study, hoping that one of the dozens could provide some salvation from potential dangers of public discovery.

Some were too simple, others were made obsolete with time. Even more were far too sensitive to touch upon—too public, that is. Holmes negated the majority of the piles we accumulated, and his stubborn rules of what was acceptable made the process grueling yet easy. If there was a surplus in our options, it would have only complicated things. This way, if there were cases, there were few.

We spent the remainder of the afternoon sorting through each individual situation, each problem. Finally, after eating no lunch and imagining the agony of dinner being passed as well, Holmes found something. He batted the existing letter from my hand and replaced it with one he had spotted.

After reading the hastily written words, I looked up to my companion, only to find his eyes on my own.

“It seems, my dear John, we must be heading to Oxford.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be out on Monday (9/25)!
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)   
>  [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Case #2 begins and things take an unexpected turn.

Of all case descriptions I had read over the years, this one sparked my interest in a way none had before it. Not due to it being particularly perplexing, but more so due to the people and events mentioned in the short letter. The few details we did receive from it drew me in enough to keep me silent in my own thought for some time before I spoke up.

“A green carnation left on a body of an Oxford student after being beaten, bloody green petals leading to hidden messages, said hidden messages leading to threatening clues. Why, it seems perfectly crafted for you Holmes,” I said with a vague enthusiasm. My excitement would have been much more heightened had the circumstances been better, but all I could muster was a slight raise in pitch with a positive affirmation. My companion met eyes with me and gave a soft smile, though his eyes were sad.  

“Perfectly suited to keep my mind stimulated for, at least, a few days I should think. Come, Watson, we have packing to do!”

—

Days later, we were settled in our Oxford lodgings. Holmes had sent a telegram from our new address to Abigail to make contact easier, and before we left Wembury, Holmes replied to our potential client with intrigue as to the circumstances and if they had come to a close. Unfortunately—though, fortunate for us, I suppose—they had not, so we were quickly on our way to the university town. 

I feel inclined to inform anyone reading this now that this is, indeed, the true account of the published story “The Three Students.” I stated at the start of that case, rather frankly, that much of what was written was an altered version of the truth. This is the legitimate account of the case “The Three Students,” without the restrictions of potential scandal keeping my hands tied. 

Holmes was not fueled by adrenaline or intrigue in the way he commonly was the evening before meeting a client. He was on edge, irritable, and certainly not the pleasant man he was in our time on the countryside. It caused an ache in my heart to watch him so unhappy, yet I knew none of his dread was at any fault of my own. I felt an overwhelming urge to mend all the problems of the world, to destroy any evil force keeping my lover from comfort and happiness. I knew the urges were illogical and emotional, and Holmes would have laughed at the fantasy of it. All the same, it overcame my mind every moment I watched his downward spiral into discontent.

Neither of us had discussed the implications behind the evidence we were provided with via our client’s letter yet, either. Holmes was keeping his hypotheses primarily to himself, as he often did when he was in a sour mood. While I had my own suspicions, my partner could corroborate none of them. Instead, he poured his energy into the library beside our lodgings, in which he studied books on a multitude of unrelated subjects. 

The next morning, rather than meeting our client at his dormitory as planned, we were greeted with a panicked knock upon our door around 10 o’clock. I opened it to see a breathless university student, clearly having just run to our rooms. 

“Am I correct to assume that you are Dr. Watson?” he asked between huffs of air.

“Why, yes, you are. Are you the Howard Saunders whom Holmes and I are to meet just an hour from now?” I replied, taken aback by the sight before me. Holmes approached me from behind, still maintaining some distance to observe. 

The young man had mostly caught up to his breath now and let out one long exhale before saying anything more. 

“If you please, I can come inside to inform you of the details,” Mr. Saunders explained.

“Do come in, young man, and please take a seat,” Holmes offered from his position a few feet away. Our client wandered past the threshold of our rooms into the sitting space, placing himself upon one of our chairs. Holmes took a space across from the student, and I beside Holmes.

“So,” began Holmes, “What was different about this one, Mr. Saunders?”

“W-what do you mean?” the boy stumbled.

“You have clearly just seen another attack upon one of your friends,” Holmes stated. “This was to be expected based upon the telegrams we exchanged before my arrival, and you are adequately upset by the action. However, there would have been no reason to change our plans of meeting in the next hour to discuss it, unless there was an aspect to it which upset you even further than the previous. Pray, Mr. Saunders, do explain.”

The young student stared agape at my companion for a moment before collecting his thoughts.

“Well, Mr. Holmes, I—” he struggled through the mental images swimming in his brain. “The first attack, upon Nowell, was in the alley halfway across our college campus. The petals led towards our dormitory building, which was shocking enough. This time, however, my housemate Damian Reed has been assaulted in our very own lodgings, just as you had predicted. But, the implications were far more treacherous.” Our client visibly swallowed his fears down his throat.

“I imagine the same flower and petals remained just as the time before?” Holmes inquired. Mr. Saunders nodded anxiously. “And where, precisely, did the petals lead to, Mr. Saunders?”

“They, erm, they led to the bedroom door of another housemate of mine. Mitchell Morrison.”

Holmes nodded slowly, absorbing the information. There was a length of silence for some time before Holmes asked the boy another question.

“Mr. Saunders,” he started. “When consulting me, I require all my clients to be one-hundred percent honest with me. I have my own hypotheses as to the cause of these assaults, but any confirmation and solution will need some additional information only you have.” I knew what my friend was hinting at, and I felt my teeth clench with nerves. The green carnations of Oxford were heavily associated with the Aestheticism movement, primarily fronted by none other than Oscar Wilde. Many Oxford aesthetes adorned their collars with the symbolic flower to show where their affections lied. Though this was only just now becoming known to the general public, the aesthetes of the university had maintained the practice for some time, left mostly unnoticed before this treacherous trial.

The student took a deep breath inward in contemplation, then looked up to meet both Holmes and my eyes. Fear ran through his veins like oxygen, and I knew Holmes could sense it just the same. The anticipation filled the room. 

As he exhaled, Saunders replied. “You were a student here at Oxford, weren’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, I was. I graduated in 1876 from St. Edmund Hall.”

“I can only hope, Mr. Holmes,” Saunders began, “That in choosing to contact you, I did not make a misstep of judgement… about who I gathered yourself and Dr. Watson to be.”

“I am almost certain you did not,” Holmes assured him. 

Another deep breath from our client before, “Additionally, I can only pray that, if I place my confidence in you, you can promise me to keep what I tell you solely within this room.”

“You have the word of myself and Watson equally,” Holmes promised. I nodded my confirmation warmly. 

Saunders’s eyes found a place upon the floor, far away from the stare of Holmes. “There is a secret club, sir. One I founded with my five housemates. The Emerald Aesthetes, we call it.”

“Yes, I gathered something of the sort,” Holmes replied in a far gentler tone than he typically took whilst gathering information on a case.

Mr. Saunders looked up to catch my friend’s eyes, “You so often will confess to clients things you have gathered before they must say it themselves, Mr. Holmes. Why make the exception on something so… sensitive?” 

Holmes’s expression was pained, overcome with empathy towards the young man, though still attempting to hide it. “I felt it would hold much more value for you to tell us upon your own accord, so as to show Watson’s and my own trustworthy status.” 

The boy nodded in understanding. The understated, yet overwhelming exchange of empathy between the three of us was as it needed to be. Our client relaxed his tensed muscles and began, without encouragement from Holmes, to tell us the full story.

“I must first explain to you, Mr. Holmes, that tomorrow is the date of the club’s first private party between all members. Myself, along with the other four founders, have been organising the event for weeks now, though it must be kept closely under wraps for obvious reasons. Given the current state of affairs in London’s courtrooms, we felt it necessary to show camaraderie in this dire time. Therefore, the only individuals who could possibly know about said party are people involved in our club.”

“I do hate to interrupt, Mr. Saunders,” Holmes said. “But you did say there were six founders total, did you not?”

“That leads into the next part I must explain to you, sir,” Saunders continued. “One of the founders, Gladwin is his name, has been acting… out of character as of late.”

“How so?”

“Well, you see, he has always been the more repressed of us all, as well as the least academic. He is on the Rugby team, as well as cricket. The majority of the Emerald Aesthetes are focused in humanities or sciences, however he certainly is not. Additionally, he is far less inclined to admit his inversion in comparison to the rest of us, even within the privacy of our own rooms. Despite all of this, though, we still managed to welcome his presence. For the last two months or so, however, his attitudes worsened greatly. He would regularly be absent to meetings, due to courtships with young women he hardly cared for. He began mocking our club’s efforts, and interrupting our discussions with unrelated matters. You see, his father, Sir Jonathan Gladwin, faced financial downfall some years ago and therefore he feels inclined to maintain the family name upon his shoulders alone. It is my hypothesis that, after his most recent visit with his father, was overcome with a sense of responsibility and wished to forget his dual nature.

“Because of this, Mr. Holmes, we had decided to keep the planning of this party separate from Gladwin, as he was the cause of much discomfort to other members. I, truly, could not stand the decision, yet the other three boys claimed majority vote on the matter. Soon after that choice was made, the first attack upon Nowell occurred. I viewed it as a cursed omen; some kind of accident brought upon by another source, merely coincidentally pointing towards our secret arrangements. However, once I realised where the familiar light green petals led, my heart dropped and I knew I must inform you, if no one else, of the tragedy.”

“Based on the information you have just provided, it would seem that Gladwin would be the obvious culprit,” I stated, bringing our client’s attention to me rather than Holmes.

“That was our first conclusion, yes, however he had a clear alibi for the time of the bashing. He was in our parlour playing chess with Reed at the time. There was no feasible way he could have made it from our lodgings to the other side of the campus whilst in the same room as Reed all evening.”

Holmes nodded atop his steepled fingers contemplatively. 

“Who was present for the discovery of Nowell, Mr. Saunders?”

“It was myself and Bancroft, another one of our housemates,” he responded, cringing at the thought of the recent attack.

“And I take it you did not contact any authorities on the matter?”

“No, certainly not. This was late into the evening, and no one else could be seen in any direction. The backstreet was poorly lit, as is typical. We cared for his wounds ourselves.”

“Pray, continue with your narrative. Tell me of what happened this morning, and do not spare a single detail.”

Saunders prepared himself and continued on with his account. “I awoke this morning, at about quarter to eight. Since it is a Saturday, I was the first to stir from my room, or so I suspected. I dressed myself before making my way to the dining area to collect my morning coffee. I have an exams coming up, you see, so I was intending to spend the time before our meeting to study. To my shock and horror, though, as I moved down the staircase to the ground floor, I was met with Reed’s unconscious body before me. It was… worse than Nowell. Nowell had fought back, at least by his bruised knuckles when we found him. Reed, however, was clearly attacked from behind and swiftly made unconscious due to the severity of it. At first, I was paralysed with shock, but I soon collected myself and yelled up to the first floor, trying to alarm the other boys. All of them came running, fully aware of the situation at hand, and it was only then when I realised where precisely the familiar green petals led. 

“Up the left side of the staircase, the partially bloodied petals went all the way up to the door of Morrison who, upon seeing them, exclaimed in fear. The flower we once associated with community and safety was now reason enough to scream in terror. Once I knew Reed was being monitored by the others, I ran to get the first aid kit I had in my room, as I major in medicine. After a while, less than ten minutes I would say, Reed finally came to. I asked him if he could recall anything of the attack, and his memory had escaped him. None of my housemates confessed to any knowledge of the incident. Gladwin and Bancroft share living quarters, and therefore provided one another with an alibi. Nowell could not possibly be at fault, given that his wounds are still healing from his own beating! If Morrison were responsible, he would have had to trail the petals back to his own door to somehow… convince us all of his innocence. While that could be rather clever of him, I refused to make any conclusions before consulting with the two of you. I am utterly mortified, Mr. Holmes, and Morrison is most certain he is next. The party is tomorrow, and if it is our attackers goal to weaken each of us before the time arrives, we have very little time to progress.”

The three of us remained in mutual silence for many minutes after Saunders completed his account. The way Saunders spoke of the account reminded me much of my own companion. His analysis of the sequence of events was based in a logic one could rarely anticipate of an emotional, shocked young man. Holmes’s eyes were shut, going over each detail within his mind. Eventually, my companion spoke.

“Forgive my prying, Mr. Saunders, but my question is pertinent to this investigation. Are any of the five founders romantically or sexually involved with one another?” Holmes asked it in such a frank tone, lacking the subtlety we had used before. 

“Not to my knowledge, no. I am aware that Bancroft and Gladwin have known one another since they were young boys, and Bancroft and myself attended secondary school together. Otherwise, we typically court outside of our rooms.”

“Where were you during the time period the attacks could have occurred?”

“For the first, I was discussing party details with Bancroft. For the second, well, I was asleep, I suppose. I share a room with Nowell, who went to bed after I retired for the night.”

My friend nodded slowly, contemplating.

“Now, Saunders, I do not intend for you to misunderstand what I am about to say. From what you have said to me thus far, I gather you are a man of coherence and sense,” Holmes continued. Saunders nodded his agreement as a sign to carry on. “Why am I to believe you did not conduct these attacks yourself?”

I, myself, was aghast at the question. Surely, this assertion was not based in any truth. The facts themselves did not fit together. Perhaps Holmes was attempting to gather our client’s level-headedness by making an otherworldly assertion? For a moment, I could see the cogs within Saunders’s head turn. 

“I would respect the theory’s origin, of course. However, I must wonder how it is possible, given I have an alibi for the first, and have utterly no motive for either.”

Holmes paused before saying, “I suppose you are right. I would like to meet with Reed and Nowell, if you please.”

“Certainly, I have told them my plans to meet with you today.”

Saunders led the two of us towards his shared lodgings, with Holmes and myself slightly behind him. I looked up to my companion for some kind of silent understanding as to what the latter part of the conversation meant. His expression was solemn with a tinge of agitation, and his lips twisted slightly to indicate discomfort. It was if silently informing me on where this case had taken a turn. I felt my muscles tighten with nerves. 

As we entered the home, we were greeted by three of the five boys we had been told about, all sat in the parlour. Based on the faded bruises upon one of their faces, I gathered the taller, spectacle-clad boy was Nowell; the first victim. Beside him was a shorter chap with mouse brown hair, dressed rather smartly for a late Saturday morning. The final boy was more muscled than the other two, with a moustache and beard; most likely, this was Gladwin. 

“Boys,” Saunders said to the three sat on the sofas, “This is Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They are here about the attacks recently, and have promised utter secrecy. You can be as honest with them as you are to me.” The three stood up to shake our hands.

“James Nowell, pleased to meet you,” said the boy with the bruises. He shook Holmes’s and my hand with a smile.

“Thomas Bancroft, gentlemen, it is truly a pleasure,” said the shorter boy with a timid yet firm hand. 

“Samuel Gladwin, thank you for giving us your time,” said the bearded, muscular boy, whom I rather hesitated to refer to as a “boy.” He appeared older in his face than the rest, with an additional caution.

“Mr. Nowell,” Holmes started, directing his words towards him. “I would like to ask you a few questions about the night of your attack, if it suits you. Privacy would be preferred.”

“Certainly, sir,” Nowell replied, eyeing the other young men in the parlour. All three of them scattered quickly, leaving just Holmes, myself, and Nowell in the room. I sat beside Holmes, closer than I typically was able in client settings.

“I have been informed by your housemate, Saunders, that you do not recall the events of your attack, yet your bruised knuckles indicated you fought back. Is there any aspect of the evening you do recall?”

“The last thing I remember was that I was returning home from an evening at the library. I was studying for my exams and was quite exhausted from a day of hard work, and I was taking backstreets to save time and get home faster. The next thing I knew, I saw Saunders and Bancroft hovering above me, holding bandages to my forehead,” Nowell described. Holmes listened attentively to every word.

“Do you have any suspicions as to why you would potentially be the first target of a series of attacks like these?”

“Not at all, sir. My connections to the Emerald Aesthetes are no more integral than the rest of the founders.”

“Interesting…” Holmes mumbled. “Interesting that you would say that when you all voted to keep one of the six founders in the dark about this party, is it not?”

The boy’s expression shifted from the innocent and pensive one of before to that of offense and confusion.

“Where in God’s name did you hear that, Mr. Holmes?”

Now it was I with a confused reaction. Instead of Holmes repeating this emotion, however, he only became more lost within his inquiry. 

“Fascinating, truly. Thank you very much for your assistance, Mr. Nowell. We will now need to consult Mr. Reed on his assault.”

The stunned look on Nowell’s face did not fade whatsoever upon his dismissal, though he did gradually make his way towards the door of the parlour. Holmes bounced up from his seat and made his way to the staircase. 

“Mr. Saunders,” my partner began. “Would you be so kind as to direct me Mr. Reed?”

Saunders turned his attention back to us as we emerged back into the foyer and stumbled into his answer. “Why yes, of course.”

The boy’s bedroom door was ajar, revealing Morrison caring for a deeply injured, bedridden Reed. Behind his swollen features, the recent victim was fair in his complexion, with a deep red tint to his hair. The young man sat beside him was rather dark in comparison, almost black hair and a more brown tint to his skin. Holmes entered, with me close behind, and introduced himself. 

“Hello, gentlemen, I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my partner Dr. Watson. I have a few inquiries about this morning’s incident I would like to discuss with you, Mr. Reed.”

Reed leaned upward from his horizontal position to get a better view of the strangers at his threshold. 

“Y-yes, of course,” he responded in a hushed tone. 

“I will leave you to some privacy,” Morrison offered, still visibly shaken from recent events. He exited carefully, closing the door behind him. 

“I have had some truly intriguing conversations with your housemates this morning, Mr. Reed,” Holmes began. “I would like to speak to you, however, on what it is you can recall leading up to your attack this morning.”

Reed swallowed, “I found myself awake at dawn this morning, unable to bring myself to fall back asleep. I decided to quietly go down to the study to work on exam revisions, to make use of this restless state. I did that for some time before I rose to get myself a small breakfast, but my memory fades around that time, unfortunately.” 

His injuries were far more prominent than Nowell’s rather faded bruises and scars. As he spoke, I silently examined the nature of his marks. At least one or two ribs were broken, given his stiff torso, as well as a few others bruised. His head sustained an injury—most likely the blow to render him unconscious—that was creating a rather evident bump upon his right side. His left eye was swollen, and his bottom lip had a prominent slash. It was clear that whomever attacked this poor boy was able to do damage efficiently, specifically, and painfully. No amateur could have performed it. 

Holmes must have been making similar conclusions to myself, based on the question he posed next.

“Is anyone living in this house trained in physical combat? Boxing, fencing, martial arts of any kind?”

Reed thought deeply for a moment before responding, “Not that I am aware of, no sir.”

Holmes hummed in understanding and nodded his head. “Thank you for your information, Mr. Reed. Do get well soon.”

Suddenly, Holmes was directing me out of the room and into the hall, closing the door briskly behind us. Before the boys could find us, I found time to whisper my observations to my partner.

“That attack was done as quickly as possible with as little time and as much damage possible. Surely that Gladwin boy has some training in the area?”

“While that was my initial assumption, something far more grim surfaced in my deductions.”

We were then instantly interrupted by an eager set of five boys, including Morrison now, all awaiting some form of answer. 

“The best thing I could possibly suggest to you all,” Holmes started, “Is to contact campus authorities on this matter.”

Their collective expressions, including my own I must admit, sank to utter disappointment.

“You cannot truly see that as the only option, Mr. Holmes, you know what is at risk!” Saunders demanded, an anger beginning to boil within him. 

“I assure you there is more they can do here than myself.” 

“But… how? You are the magnificent Sherlock Holmes! You can solve anything!” Saunders’s voice raised even further.

“Do not base your opinions of me upon fictions published in magazines, young man,” Holmes said harshly. There was a silence among us all. 

“I… I cannot fathom what the future holds for us here, sir,” Saunders muttered.

“I am afraid there are more pressing matters for myself and Watson to concern ourselves with at this time.”

The shock among the students was equal to the shock within myself. Given our current situation, Holmes was in no place to be turning cases away. This behaviour not only surprised me, but concerned me. What could possibly be leading to this swift change in opinion from our exchange mere moments ago to now? Was he lying to these boys from some reason I could not comprehend?

I elected to leave my questioning of him until we were in the privacy of one another’s space, and allowed him to lead me out of the lodgings, following his quick gait into the cloudy April morning. Almost back to our doorstep, loud, running footsteps were heard from behind us. 

I turned to look, and it was Saunders. 

“Was my statement not clear enough, Mr. Saunders?” Holmes said in a cold, almost nasty tone. 

Our client’s expression was hardened, very unlike the boy I had greeted at our front door just over an hour ago. He hardly acknowledged my presence, merely gluing his eyes to Holmes. 

“There is more to this than you let on, I just know it.”

“Do you?”

“We both know what is truly happening here, sir. But, we should wait to discuss it until we have returned to your rooms, I should think.”

Holmes agreed with a somber expression and the three of us silently walked up to the threshold. The curtains in the sitting room were all shut, adding a darkness to the environment. We sat in the same positions as we had previously, yet this time with an added uneasiness. Before I could assume anything, Holmes spoke.

“Of all the ways to obtain the attention of me, this was by far the most violent.”  _ Oh.  _

“I felt it necessary, given the circumstances,” Saunders said.

I shook my head in frustration, “One moment, please.” This drew the attention of both men to me. “Please explain the almost telepathic communication occurring between the both of you that I am not privileged enough to witness.”

Holmes took a rather sorrowful breath, eyes attached to the floor. “It appears our client is the perpetrator of these crimes.”

“And how is that? What about Gladwin?”

Saunders laughed. It was repulsive and narcissistic. The laugh made me feel ill.

“Oh, must you always catch your poor pet up to every case you take on?” the boy taunted. Holmes shot a look of disgust back.

“You have no right to mock anyone in this situation, young man,” Holmes spat. Saunders raised his brow sarcastically, though my partner utterly ignored it as he continued to speak. “Bancroft covered up your tracks, did he not?”

“Obviously.”

“So,” Holmes sighed. “Let us examine the facts, shall we? You created this club with genuine intentions during your first year, back in September of 1890. You are in your fifth year, now getting a degree in medicine after a Bachelor’s of… Mathematics, I presume? You had Professor Moriarty as your first semester mathematics instructor, though he resigned prior to the spring term. A few months later, it is revealed he has passed away at the hand of myself, and that I had fallen down the Reichenbach Falls along with him. In 1894, I returned to work in London, quickly catching the public eye despite Watson’s lack of stories in the press. Eventually, this news reached Oxford’s reading public, and you became infuriated. Therefore, you formulated a plan to ruin myself and my reputation.

“After months of careful planning and work, you heard of the impending trial between Oscar Wilde, a famous Oxford aesthete and graduate, charging his lover’s father with libel for calling him a sodomite. You knew my connections to Wilde, as well as my connections to aestheticism, and found the perfect opportunity. You had to orchestrate a way to get my attention first, so you began attacking your cohorts to spark my interest. Drawing me in with the carnations and secrets, you would force me to trust you, only to then reveal mine and Watson’s inversion to Scotland Yard and the British government. You did not care whether or not we died, so long as our reputations were squandered after the demise of your beloved professor. Bancroft has been in love with you since you met in secondary school, and you knew he would bend to your every whim. You utilised his theatrical background in makeup to cover up your wounds from Nowell, and he willingly provided you with an alibi. To your knowledge, there was no way you could lose. Except, of course, that you have wildly underestimated mine and Watson’s intellect.”

The information overwhelmed my mind entirely, incapacitating my ability to respond. Even in death, Moriarty’s threats continued to loom. I watched as Saunders’s face changed further, though not in the way I thought it would. Rather than looking rather exposed, his despicable grin spread across his cheeks, and soon a low, rumbling laugh overtook him. 

“You say all of this, Mr. Holmes, as if I have not won.”

“How, precisely, do you propose that?”

“You may understand my plan, but what point does that serve now? You have openly admitted your inversion to me, and I have every capability to tell every newspaper, police force, and government figure the truth.”

“And yet, you have done the same with your own truth,” Holmes retorted.

Another laugh roared out from this menacing boy across from us, “You do not truly believe, Holmes, that I am  _ actually  _ a sodomite, do you? I had no idea you were so slow.”

“Not the truth of your sexual identity, Saunders,” Holmes replied. “The truth of your crimes. Unfortunately for yourself, I have a significantly positive relationship with each of those figures you mentioned. You, however, do not. I could, rather easily, report you to the authorities while maintaining the two victims safety and have you face prison without any consequence to myself or Watson.”

“And what do you intend to do when I get out? Or do you plan to keep me locked away for the rest of my life for a simply battery crime?”

“You underestimate my connections, Mr. Saunders.”

“Do I?”

There was an anger raging inside the deepest pit of my chest as words continued to spill out of this repulsive boy’s mouth. After listening to enough of this horrendous back and forth, I simply could not keep my thoughts to myself.

“Have you  _ any  _ idea who the man you are idolising so dearly truly was?” I remarked with a bite in my voice.

Saunders turned his vicious gaze to me, “And who, exactly, was that?”

“Professor Moriarty was precisely the same in his behaviour as Holmes and myself. In fact, he was rather reckless about it. Why do you think he was forced to resign after decades of revered work for the university?”

For the first time during this exchange, I could see the boy’s face show fear. 

“He couldn’t possibly…” he mumbled to himself.

“Unfortunately for you, Saunders, Watson speaks the truth,” Holmes corroborated.

“But he never… You must be lying!” he screeched, standing up from his seat. “You are lying to intimidate me, when you know you have lost!”

Holmes shook his head in disdain and looked up at the frightened boy before us. “For spending as much time as you have on a master plan, the result of your research is rather unimpressive. It will impossible to create a scandal towards Watson and myself without posthumously revealing your beloved professor’s inclinations as well.”

Saunders scoffed in agitation and began anxiously pacing along our sitting room. 

“My dear Watson,” Holmes said, gesturing to me. “Would you please open the door and let our guest in?” Taken aback, I complied and walked over to the doorway. Upon opening, I was greeted with the familiar Detective Hopkins. 

“Hello, Dr. Watson, lovely to see you again,” Hopkins chimed warmly, reminding me instantly that the rest of the world was entirely unaware of the terrifying conversation I just witnessed.

“Hello, Hopkins, the same to you.”

“I received your telegram yesterday evening, Mr. Holmes, and I arrived when you asked. What is this about battery charges?” Hopkins inquired.

“Ah, yes Hopkins!” Holmes greeted, rising from his chair. I kept my eye upon Saunders, who was stopped in his tracks. “This young man here is Howard Saunders. He thought it to be rather amusing to physically assault two of his housemates. If you would not mind, please take him to the local authorities in handcuffs. Watson and I have other matters we must attend to.”

Saunders’s eyes widened in fear, clearly trying to map an escape plan at the last moment. To his dismay, Hopkins was one of the few Scotland Yarders that Holmes truly trusted, and with good cause. Before he could move any further, Hopkins had walked over and seized his wrists in the dreaded metal cuffs. 

“All right, young man, come with me,” Hopkins said, and the two left our lodgings to venture to the police. We watched them go for as long as we could, and after they vanished from our view, I turned my attention to Holmes. 

“You sent him a telegram last night. How did you know?” I asked.

“The case was too orchestrated, was it not? Oxford, carnations, assaulted Uranian boys who could not remember a thing, all coming to a head just days after the first criminal trial of Wilde begins in London? Far too much apparent coincidence for it to be genuine, certainly.”

For a moment, I simply looked up at him in silence. It did make sense, that much was true, and I felt there was nothing more to add. I maneuvered us back into our sitting room, shutting the door behind us, and turned to face the brilliant man beside me.

“You amaze me more everyday, Holmes.”

Colour grew in his cheeks as his eyes met mine. “And everyday I learn how low your expectations must be. The case was entirely simple, my dear.”

“The complexity does not always determine the importance, you know.”

“I highly disagree! That is the primary determining factor in our work, is it not?”

“I am not simply referencing our work, my love,” I said softly, cupping his face in the mild darkness behind closed curtains, placing a gentle kiss upon his lips. He smiled as I pulled back, reaching up to touch my hand in return. 

We stood like that for some time, existing in one another’s space. Eventually, we had to continue the tasks of the day. We had to build our facade up once more, presenting a false life to those outside of our private rooms. Like clockwork, we took advantage of the brief seconds in which we could thrive outside of that, knowing that we must always return to it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)   
>  [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans must be sorted out, and discussions must be had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are officially at the half-way point of the fic!! I hope you enjoy this and get excited for what's to come.

I awakened to see Holmes curled into a semi-circular shape, mirroring my own position. His right hand laid on the mattress, and I could not help but place my hand over his. After a few moments of soothing silence, drifting in and out of sleep, I felt Holmes’s fingers curl around my palm.

“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured.

“Good morning, my love,” I reciprocated. It was simple, yet so full of feeling and depth. Only our hands and knees marked points of contact between us, and yet there was a constant energy shared, as if we occupied the same space, the same life. Holmes inched nearer to me, draping his arm over my waist to caress my back. I eased my way closer, allowing him to hold me tighter. I pushed my heavy eyelids open to greet his soft blue-grey irises, and I felt utterly calm.

We were now in a cottage in Englishcombe, near Bath, maintaining a comfortable anonymity within the countryside as we spent lazy days in one another’s company. The last few mornings began much like this one, with soft words and easy affection. On this particular day, I welcomed the quiet companionship more than ever. The uncertainty of the outside world haunted my unconscious thoughts and dreams, so my lover’s uncomplicated, non-judgemental air was precisely what I needed.

“You had another set of uneasy dreams, I see,” Holmes mentioned, running his palm up and down my back.

“Wilde’s case is making certain that my mind shall not be at ease even once until it has all mulled over, it seems,” said I.

“The simplest solution, then, is to distract,” he announced, raising his volume just slightly above the hushed whisper of before.

“And what, Sherlock, do you propose?”

His reply was accompanied by his fingers running through my hair.

“May I suggest a morning walk along the brook nearby? Or are you utterly opposed to any departure from our bedroom today?” he jested. I returned a small chuckle, landing my forehead against his in the process.

“It is early enough that it should be fairly empty of anyone else. That sounds lovely.”

The two of us eventually peeled ourselves away from each other to get dressed for the day and nibble on some bread before departing. We had received some mail within our letterbox, but concluded it was best to leave that for after our return.

—

Our walk along the Newton Brook utterly alleviated my existing concerns, yet the moment I saw Mycroft’s name upon a small letter at our cottage, all my worry returned. Surely it was yet another update on current trial proceedings, and I was ill-equipped for the truth. Holmes opened the envelope with a certain care and focus that put my nerves on edge. He was methodical and stoic, often how he behaved at the most dangerous of crime scenes.

“My dear brother,” Holmes read aloud. “The first criminal trial upon Mr. Wilde has commenced as of the twenty-sixth of April. Wilde has the same counsel as he did for the previous case, Sir Edward Clarke, and has pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charge of gross indecency. As I write this, you are currently involved in a case at Oxford, however I have addressed it to where I know you shall be staying in Englishcombe in good confidence of what the results of said university trouble shall be.” At this sentence, my companion shared a swift, irritated glance with me. Of course Mycroft would know the solution to our case before even Holmes did. “Given my assistance to arranging all of your and Dr. Watson’s temporary lodgings as of late, I am confident my address is correct. There shall be another update in the following week.”

If anything at all, I was thankful for the lack of truly horrid news. At the very least, the information was neutral in nature and merely an account of things. I prayed that the next update we received would not be any different, though I knew that was unlikely.

“What are your predictions, Holmes?” I inquired with a gentle angle, acknowledging his likely unguarded emotional state.

“Clarke will get frustrated with the piles of evidence against Wilde and be forced to resign the case. I am uncertain if any conviction will be possible in this first trial with Clarke as counsel, which will cause much delay. If they must have another criminal trial to convict him of his charge, it will give Wilde time to escape, though I doubt he will take the opportunity. Other than those specificities, I am uncertain as to the outcome.”

“Well,” I forced, “It is more than many can gather.” I wanted, more than anything in the world, to move to a separate topic entirely. I wished to escape back to the brook we occupied just half an hour ago, yet I knew it was impossible to avoid this forever.

“I believe we will have to spend the remainder of the month away from Baker Street, at the least,” said Holmes with a frown. I could see plainly how he missed the comfort of our home together, and how he occasionally found himself dreading these temporary living facilities.

No words I could possibly muster would even begin to mend the situation at hand, so the best effort I thought of was to remove the space between us and pull the man I love into a warm embrace. I wound my arms around his thin torso and buried my face in the crevice of his neck and shoulder. He reciprocated, wrapping his wiry arms round me. Our chests rose and fell with one another, and I knew Holmes required no words to understand my message. Stroking my back slowly, he spoke once more.

“I love you equally, my dear.”

The day carried on with minimal effort, Holmes and myself resting and mindlessly working on small projects. As I read a thrilling adventure novel in the parlour, Holmes approached me, adorned in his jacket and hat.

“I am going to request that Miss Bennett and her companion meet us here to discuss the more delicate details of our current plan,” he announced passively. “I will be back within the hour after sending the telegram, in time for tea. I would ask you to join me, however the sight of the both of us together raises the risk of public recognition by at least thirty-five percent. Do you require anything from the main road?” I knew it marred him to say this, but it was not untrue. Still, he placed a comforting palm upon my shoulder as he spoke and I smiled up at him. I placed a small kiss upon his knuckles before covering them with my own.

“Nothing at all, love. I will see you later for tea.”

“Quite right,” said he, leaving a soft touch of his lips atop my head. Wordlessly, he made his way out the door and into town, leaving me to the silence of my reading.

—

A few days later, a knock came upon our door from none other than Miss Bennett and Pepper.

“Why hello, Dr. Watson!” Miss Bennett greeted as I welcomed them past the cottage’s threshold.

“Wonderful to see you, Miss Bennett,” I replied with a smile. Pepper followed wordlessly behind her friend, and the moment she caught sight of Holmes further within the parlour, she bounded towards him to pull him into a tight embrace. I could see the taken aback expression upon his face for a brief second before returning the gesture to the young girl.

“I cannot thank you enough for all you have done, sir,” she said, mumbling slightly against Holmes’s collar.

“It is, by far, the least I could do.” Pepper took a step back, dropping her arms to her sides with a bow of her head, before looking over to Miss Bennett to finish their collective thought.

“Truly, it was not. The least someone of your social stature and position could have done was leave me entirely behind, doomed to enter into a loveless marriage,” Miss Bennett responded in. “Pepper and myself are endlessly grateful, Mr. Holmes.”

I gave a nod to my partner as a signal that I was about take on our equally collective response. He approved with a long-lasting blink.

“The two of you are not dissimilar to us, Miss Bennett. Holmes and myself when we first met were much like you and Miss—” I trailed, desperately attempting to recall if I had ever learned of Pepper’s surname.

“—Sampson,” Miss Bennett confirmed with a reassuring simper.

“Yes, of course,” I exhaled, thankful for the understanding nature of our guests.

“Indeed,” Holmes agreed. “Please, ladies, do sit down. Watson, is there any tea remaining from breakfast?”

“After the journey they’ve had, I should think they would want fresh, hot tea. Would either of you like some? It is no trouble, surely,” I said, already making my way to the kitchen.

“That would be lovely, yes. Thank you Dr. Watson,” Miss Sampson replied timidly from her seat beside her partner.

A few moments later, I returned with a tray of tea and biscuits, along with four cups for each of us. I sat it down upon the table between the sofas quietly, listening in on the current conversation.

“... Apiary?” Miss Bennett said singularly. I elected not to make any conclusions based solely on the strange statement, and continued to listen to Holmes’s response.

“Yes. I have an affinity for apiculture myself, as the study of bees fascinates me. Therefore, it shall be easy enough to introduce within a telegram or telephone conversation without any questionable nature. I must make myself clear in that we shall not ever discuss this plan in any context outside of private letters or person to person contact. Despite this, however, the signal will need to be sent as quickly as possible from any point of the United Kingdom. So, when you see the word ‘apiary,’ that is your sign to board the next train to London,” Holmes explained in detail.

“Do you have an estimate of when our meeting shall take place?”

“I cannot say for certain, as the schedule of a trial this sensitive is impossible to predict. However, given the current circumstances, I would not imagine the date being before the end of the month. We must wait approximately one week before returning, so as to not associate our arrival with the conclusion of trial.”

Miss Bennett frowned, placing a hand upon Miss Sampson’s knee. “Are you in a similar thought as myself, Mr. Holmes, about the inevitable conclusion to a trial this grim?”

“Yes, I am afraid so,” Holmes muttered.

“While the matter does not impact mine or Pepper’s safety in any direct sense, I cannot say it does not frighten me. A man so prominent in English society, so quickly turned into a pillar of shame to the public…” Miss Bennett lamented, ultimately unaware of how this sentence easily could apply to the man sat beside me just as it applies to Oscar Wilde.

“Mr. Holmes?” Miss Sampson began.

“Yes?”

“I do pray I do not sound foolish or rude in asking you this, but it would be dishonest to say I have not wondered. If this trial may negatively affect you and Dr. Watson directly, why have you remained in England for this last month when it would be infinitely safer upon the Continent?”

The question confounded even me, despite it being directed to Holmes. I had briefly addressed the possibility during our stay in Wembury, but he entirely disregarded it with close to no explanation. I recalled his many statements over the last few weeks, saying that he doubted Wilde would elect to leave the country due to his own pride. Was it imaginable that my partner would adopt the same principle as a man at risk of being sent to prison?

“The further Watson and I travel from London, the more reason the city’s populace will suspect our dual nature. Hundreds of Uranian men are packing their bags, taking the next boat train available to France to avoid the horrifying dangers of the Metropolitan Police. By following the rest of our society, we instantly give yet another hint to those outside of it. As a public figure, I simply could not risk that,” Holmes asserted. The more I contemplated it, the more his reasoning made sense. In planning this London escape, our lodgings have never breached the confines of the nation, so as to make certain that we were not avoiding the most powerful forces within it.

Both young women blinked back an empathetic sadness between one another before Miss Bennett found the words to reply.

“It is most unfortunate, the things those like us must do to live a happy life.”

—

Over time, the conversation was able to turn to topics outside of avoiding the oppressive grip of the law. I shared stories of untold cases over newly poured cups of tea. Holmes told of his plans to study the habits of bees in relation to the queen. Miss Bennett and Miss Sampson re-told shared childhood memories in tandem. The sun traveled to the western part of the sky, and suddenly it was due time for our guests—now turned friends—to take the train to their accommodations in Whitchurch.

After enjoying a modest dinner of potato soup, Holmes and I readied ourselves for bed. As we undressed for the evening, a thought came to my mind.

“I believe I have at last discovered why you were so quick to assist Miss Bennett and Miss Sampson in their escape.”

“Oh?” Holmes hummed, still keeping his eyes on the mirror as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“They are rather analogous to you and I,” I said with confidence. My words finally brought my lover’s attention to me, turning away from the mirror with a snide grin.

“That is what you believe? I saw myself in a servant girl, in love with her employing family’s daughter?” He scoffed dismissively, awaiting my response.

“Perhaps the surface of their identities are not the same, but it is difficult to deny the similarity in personalities. And, I did not say you were Pepper.” This sentence drew a gasp partnered with a theatrical expression from the man beside me. I could not help but allow a laugh to escape my lips.

“This is no laughing matter, John!” His upset was entirely superficial, thereby adding to my amusement.

“No, I suppose not,” I said, returning to my senses moments later. “Am I truly incorrect in my statement, though? Miss Bennett is extremely intelligent. She conducts herself as the composed, proactive member of the duo, yet we saw clearly from our interactions today that she is the more emotional of the two. She craves city life, and helped perfect this brilliant plan of yours. Is it so ridiculous to suggest that you may have sympathised with her due to your own personal experiences?”

Holmes’s jesting countenance slowly replaced itself with one of true contemplation as I spoke. As I finished, only a temporary pause was needed before he replied.

“And it is true that you, yourself, are not dissimilar to the quiet, yet focused, and incredibly stoic figure that belongs by her side.”

At this, our eyes met, instantaneously causing the both of us to smile warmly at one another.

“I suppose you are right,” I said, beaming. I took a singular step closer to my lover and met my lips to his. Holmes brought his grip up to my nape, maintaining the kiss with a listless pace. Many minutes passed, and by the time we separated, there was significant colour in my cheeks. Holmes leaned his brow against my own and took a deep inhale.

Neither of us shared any more words for the evening, and as we slept that night I dreamt of two twenty year-old boys in university. One of about six feet in height, slim and angular. The other, a few inches shorter, but more muscular and broadened. The first boy had a deep brown, almost black hair colour, whereas the second has a mousy brown shade. They sat against a tree together, both bent over a book as the taller boy pointed out intriguing passages. The second boy saw other students walk past, curious as to the strange behaviour of himself and his friend. Before them all, he took the first boy’s hand and left gentle kisses along his knuckles. Much to his surprise, the passersby smiled at them.

I awoke the next morning with a beautiful happiness in my chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)   
>  [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These are deep waters indeed...

On the morning of May 5, I took the mail from our letterbox as was typical. I looked through what we had received: a letter from Miss Bennett and another with no return address. For discernible reasons, I was concerned at the sight. The only individuals who have been told of our presence in Englishcombe are Miss Bennett and Sampson, as well as Mycroft.

Holmes emerged from the study to receive his expected correspondence from Miss Bennett, only to notice my unease.

“What is that, Watson?” he inquired, peering at the envelope over my shoulder.

“I am uncertain… It is addressed to the both of us in combination, which is odd in itself. However, there is no return address, or postage seals. This has been hand delivered to our letterbox by the author of the letter, it seems,” I elucidated. 

“Excellent,” Holmes muttered under his breath, clearly impressed with my deductions. “But, this does mean that someone outside of our three confidants is aware of our location. That, I imagine, is the cause of your sour expression.”

“Y-yes, indeed,” I confessed, staring down at the small envelope once more. My hand trembled as I dragged a finger along the fold. 

“Would you like me to open it?”

“At this moment, that seems to be the only option.”

With that, Holmes gently removed the envelope from my hands and took his letter opener from his inner jacket pocket. He carefully ripped it open, withdrawing the contents upon the dining table before us both. As he unfolded the documents, I instantly recognised my own hand-writing upon the pages. My chest tightened, already piecing together the possibilities. Before any conclusion was complete, Holmes spoke.

“This is a case you and I were involved in during the months of… September and October… of 1884. It is clear, nevertheless, that this was not of the cases you have published.” At his words, my heart seized in fear. Who was able to obtain this case I was certain only inhabited my private files? Anxiety swelled in my chest, recalling precisely what this story involved.

“T-this was the case with…” I trailed, unable to push the phrase out of my mouth. 

“Based on the date, it must have been very close to the start of our romantic partnership. Was it…?” He turned to me, instantly understanding my hesitation. “Oh John, I had no idea you wrote of that.”

I tried to prevent my breaths from shortening with my own turmoil before turning to face my spouse.

“It was nothing vivid, Sherlock, I promise you that. In fact, I believe it was a simple comment, but I decided rather pointedly to never share it. Even the slightest implication would have been too obvious, so I hid it within my records. I suppose I wished for the recording of that moment to exist somewhere in our history, so there was no risk in forgetting it.”

Holmes’s expression softened, partly with love, partly with pity.

“You were right, it seems,” I continued, my lungs seeming to grow smaller as my unease grew. “Emotions do so often cause the greatest of downfalls among men.”

“Do not say such things. This is of no fault of yours,” Holmes assured, placing his arm round my sunken shoulders. “It is clear from this, that a potential blackmailer is threatening the both of us collectively. Now, we must make a decision on our next move.”

“Is there anything within these contents that hints to his intentions?” I began sifting through the multiple papers on the table, and one was different than the rest. On a smaller, newer piece of parchment, there was an unfamiliar scrawl:

_ Dearest Detectives, _

_ It is quite rude to leave a guest waiting at the door. _

_ EB _

Holmes rushed to the entryway and opened it in haste, revealing a man leaned against the outside wall beside the threshold. He had slicked back brown hair, with so much oil that it appeared somewhat slimy in texture. His attire was perfectly tailored, with a well matched tie and hat. Despite how sophisticated and proper his physical appearance was, the grin plastered across his face made my stomach twist. It was entirely too pleasant, clearly counterfeit, and with a hidden malignity. 

“Hello, men!” he announced, meandering into our parlour with an all too casual ease. “Mr Holmes,” he said, turning to face him and extending his arm, “What a pleasure it is to finally have your acquaintance.” There was a pause as he waited for Holmes to shake his hand, and another as he did not receive the gesture, awkwardly allowing his arm to drop to his side. 

“I do think an introduction is in order,” I ejaculated with a bite to my tone. As our intruder made his way in my direction, Holmes expression remained firm upon him, fueled with a concentrated rage.

“Ah, yes of course,” the man agreed. “I am Evan Burdett. Pleasure to meet you as well, Dr. Watson!” Mimicking his action with Holmes, I ignored it just the same.

“I cannot say the pleasure is shared, Mr. Burdett. What is your intent with sending us these writings?”

“Well,” Burdett began. “It is… quite simple, really. I obtained these documents some time ago, and wished to utilise them at an appropriate time. All that I require from yourself, as well as Mr. Holmes, is a bit of insurance.”

“What, pray, is this insurance you so seek?” Holmes asked, over-enunciating the final consonant. 

“You see, Dr. Watson, you have something that I want. And, likewise, I have something you want.”

“How so? I do not have anything of value to someone like you!” I shouted, moving closer to Holmes, further from our unwelcome visitor.

“Oh, but you do,” he sneered. “And I believe it is just the same as what you want from me. You see, gentlemen, I do not require funds as many in my position might. No, I ask for something far more valuable to men like you. To prevent me from sharing those… rather suggestive drafts to all London newspaper, I must see the both of you forfeit the careers that have built your comfortable social bulwark.”

I saw Holmes’s eyes widen in bewilderment. The despair within the depths of my chest grew even further. Of all things demanded of Holmes and I, this was by far the most personal, the most direct. My impulse was to reach to my left to grasp my friend’s hand in mine, but it was impossible. Instead, I watched his expression become utterly overcome with dread as my heart sank. 

“What is your answer, gentlemen? Shall you make this all vanish entirely, or will you choose to be difficult?”

“Shut your mouth!” I howled, entirely out of turn. It was irrational, emotional, inflammatory, but I could not contain my anger. For a month, Holmes and myself had been forced away from our home and our livelihood to hide away from the world’s bigotry. And yet, despite our greatest efforts, an evil force appears at our doorstep regardless. The horrific events piled atop one another, as if they were a tower looming dark shadows on our existence. 

Burdett’s eyes widened at my explosion, mockingly. “Well, well, Dr. Watson…”

“How much time are you allowing for us to decide? When do you intend to send this information?” Holmes finally spoke, purely utilitarian. He was not going to grace this scum of a man with any words that were not necessary.

“Oh, I should think they may land in the laps of The Times editor by… Wednesday afternoon?” Today was a Sunday morning, so we had less than three days to sort out the issue at hand. Holmes and I were intending to leave Englishcombe within the next few days towards Manchester, but this may prevent it. 

“Leave now, Mr. Burdett. Write your address upon the envelope on the table, and we will inform you of our decision. Your company is not welcome here any longer.” Holmes’s words were pointed and controlled, but his rage was evident in each syllable. Rather flamboyantly, Burdett took my pen from the dining table to scratch his address on the paper. He ventured out the door, and Holmes followed.

“It is quite the honour, Mr. Holmes,” Burdett said as the cottage door slammed. 

The moment we returned to privacy, I bounded towards Holmes to embrace him. It was timid, shaken, and questions raced silently between our minds as my arms wrapped around him. He returned the gesture with hesitation, his actions laced with a cautious paranoia as to what knowledge the world may have stored in its back pocket, waiting to strike. 

Neither myself nor my companion spoke for the rest of the morning. As the afternoon approached, he left for two hours with a brief explanation, and said he would be back before meal time. I overheard him in our bedroom, rummaging through his suitcase for something, then rushing out of the cottage before I could see him. Despite the suspicious air of it all, he did as promised. So, I quietly prepared lunch for the both of us, holding his hand in mine as we ate our meal. In the early evening, we wordlessly agreed to take a walk along the Newton Brook, and I watched the wildlife along the shoreline continue to live on, despite my world seeming to stop.

—

The next morning, Holmes received a telegram from Mycroft.

“Is it about the trial?” I asked, hoping more than anything it was not. Given the circumstances, the last thing I wished to hear of was the suffering of Mr. Wilde.

“No,” Holmes replied, giving me a minor sense of relief. “I called for him yesterday afternoon about our… situation. I knew he would not hesitate in getting back to me.” He opened the telegram to examine its contents swiftly, before handing it over to me.

_ Sherlock, _

_ Due to the timeline you have provided, there is little in my power to solve your problem. All I can promise is Her Majesty’s government’s support, as well as the highest of legal backing for yourself and Dr. Watson. The public will not accept it. _

_ Mycroft _

As I scanned the short sentences before my eyes, the last strand of hope within me began to wither. I wanted nothing more than to take the telegram along with my writings, and run as far away from these horrendous exigency. I would rather the world cease to turn than face the social catastrophe of Burdett’s suggestion. Letting out a sigh, I dropped the note upon the table, exasperated. 

“Holmes…” I started, covering my face with my hand.

“Do not fret, my dear,” Holmes comforted. “In these twenty-four hours, my mind has not stopped to find a solution to our plight. I may have found one, however it is not entirely acceptable in the eyes of the law.”

“And what may that be?”

“Due to the danger of it all, I truly could not ask for you to accompany me. This is a battle I must fight alone.”

“Nonsense!” I retorted. “His threats involve myself just as they involve you. I refuse to sit here, waiting around as if I am some damsel for you to save. I will participate and you will let me.”

Holmes raised in eyebrows at my sudden rigidity. 

“Well then, we must prepare.”

“First, you will explain this plan to me, Sherlock. You have rather forgotten that important detail.”

“Ah, yes,” he began as he walked over to the sofa, gesturing for me to sit beside him. “It was rather odd to me how quickly Burdett provided his address upon my request. Since I had to find out for myself whether or not it was a hoax, I had to see it. After adorning a simple disguise I had packed with me, I ventured to the residence yesterday afternoon. Interestingly, it led to an occupied farmland with an abandoned barn. When I inquired at the residence, none of the family claimed to have known the man. Of course, I knew that they may have been asked to lie on accordance with the man, so this did not erase the possibility entirely. I was then determined to examine the unused barn at the back of the property, but knew I must not be seen. So, I snuck across the grounds through the trees surrounding it, and eventually arrived at the curious place. Before entering, I had to make certain no person was within. To my own convenience, the door had been left ajar, and no man could be seen. Inside, however, I found clear signs of occupancy. A small writing desk with a pulled out chair sat in one corner, whilst a single bed with fresh sheets folded atop it was in the other. Clearly, someone had been sleeping there, though he likely was spending the days elsewhere.

“Thankfully for us, Watson, Englishcombe is an incredibly small place. If I can pinpoint precisely where he will be, then it shall be quite easy to ambush him. We will take him within our clutches and return here.”

The information overwhelmed my mind, and my companion’s final statement took a moment to understand.

“You cannot possibly be suggesting we kidnap a man?”

“Did I not inform you of the lack of legality in the matter? Blackmailers are the worst form of criminal, Watson. Their sense of morality is entirely nonexistent, as they simply get what they want with threats. I have said many times prior to now how I despise any man who benefits from the actions of blackmailing, regardless of how the public perceives them. Given this, as well as the fact that this man in particular has taken the further step of threatening our very livelihood, I will stop at nothing to end his despicable reign. Nothing.”

I could not say I disagreed with the man, truly. No group repulsed me more than the likes of men who profited upon the private sensitivities of others. Despite this, I would have been lying to say I was not afraid of this action.

“What do you intend to do after we have taken him? Provide a counter threat? Of what, precisely?”

“John,” Holmes gestured, looking me in the eye. “I must ask you something I never have and hope never will be required to again… We are entirely trapped in this set of incidents. If Wilde cannot avoid court even without blackmail, we will most certainly face trial with it. I do not wish to take the issue of a man’s life into my own hands, my love, I truly do not. It is the one thing I cannot find true solace in. Even now, my murder of Moriarty shattered me to my very core. However, I cannot foresee an outcome in which Burdett lives and we do not go to prison. Whether we ended our careers or not, those documents will always exist, and with the suspicions of others in combination with Wilde’s trial, I know we will not be far behind him. This is the very reason I did not wish to include you in these proceedings, as I wanted to leave the grim responsibility to sit upon my shoulders alone.”

I swallowed down my fears as I maintained eye contact with Holmes. I knew that, regardless of my decision of involvement, I could not prevent him from pursuing this action. His devotion to my safety and reputation surpasses all others, and it was clearer to me in this moment more so than any other. 

“In that case… I will do what is needed, by your side.”

Holmes placed a warm hand upon my knee with a demure air. I covered his with my own, before looking back up at him. 

“I am sorry that my career has led you blindly into this form of danger,” he apologised. I furrowed my brow in confusion,  _ how could he possibly believe…?  _

“By now I had hoped you knew that this career is as much yours as mine. From the moment I met you, Sherlock, you could not separate your life from my own. Do you understand? This will not rest solely on your shoulders, I cannot allow that.” A frown formed across his features and I felt wretched tears behind my eyes. 

He took a deep inhale into his chest before saying anything more.

“Come now, Watson,” he rendered, rising from his seat, “The game is afoot,” in the softest, most defeated of tones.

—

Evening crawled towards us with an achingly slow pace. Holmes had explained his observations of Burdett over the course of yesterday afternoon, noting his frequent visitation of the public house. We made our way to the backstreet of the area, dressed in dark colours. While this was not a new action for either of us—the sneaking, the scouting—it did not hold the same adrenaline as I was accustomed. 

After many minutes of patient anticipation, Holmes tapped my shoulder to signal for me to advance towards the scoundrel. Burdett has just exited the public house, evidently having his dinner there. I slid quietly down the backstreet, Holmes close behind me, and thanked the Lord above for my extensive military background. Seconds later, I was in range to grip his wrists and face to silence and restrain him. Holmes had the job of incapacitating him, rendering him unconscious temporarily with the butt of my revolver. Carefully, we carried him back to our cottage before setting him in the parlour. Moments later, his senses returned to him, and Burdett smiled his worst possible smile.

“Well, well, well, gentlemen! I never would have suspected such a swift change in character… though I suppose it is not truly.”

“You worked for Charles Augustus Milverton,” Holmes spat. This was a detail he had kept from me until this moment.

I have written of our case with Milverton since this time. It was one of our more sensitive matters, I must admit. Even with my many years of waiting to publish it, the details throughout the latter half of the story were still quite… altered. Less so to maintain the reputation of our client, but more so to keep Holmes’s and my own reputations under protection. 

You see, the conclusion of the case in which a mysterious woman confronted the blackmailer and murdered him with a revolver was not, truly, what transpired that fateful evening in Appledore Towers. The woman I introduced was a hoax, for it was Holmes who was responsible for the death of Charles Augustus Milverton. I wished to keep this from the reading public to maintain a perception of morality in our work. Not that I personally viewed the act as immoral, as no man like Milverton deserves to walk the earth given what he has done. But, my readers did not know how personal the man had made it for us. 

Throughout our conversation with him within our lodgings, he threatened Holmes with a hint of him potentially knowing more about our habits than most. He mentioned the date of May 1883, in which Holmes and myself began our romantic partnership. That alone caused chills to run up my spine. As we rifled through Milverton’s safe, we found documents pertaining to this time period, leaving Holmes entirely outraged. We hid behind the curtain as the villain entered the study, but my partner instantly reached within the pocket of my jacket to acquire my gun. Before I can blink, he had pushed past the curtain and fired at the unsuspecting man. Our escape was rather the same, but the principal facts of the conclusion were not told in all accuracy. 

Back in the present, Burdett turned his head to the right, squinting his eyes as a grin spread across his features. I displaced my weight onto my left leg, waiting for his answer.

“Do explain your process of discovery, Mr. Holmes,” he taunted.

“I am unaware as to why you assume you deserve any form of explanation. Confirm my suspicions, or you will regret the alternative.” Holmes’s words were venomous, transfixed upon a singular goal and fueled with a specific anger. 

“Oh! Do you intend to kill me, dear detective? Your friends at Scotland Yard would not be overly pleased with that decision…”

“I do not base my ruling upon the laws of the English nation.” 

Burdett sighed and submitted, “Yes, I suppose you are correct. Why should that change things? I am fully aware of your and Dr. Watson’s involvement in his death.” 

“Have you understood the detail of which the police force did not?”

“If you mean to tell me one of you is the man responsible for his death directly, I could not admit any level of surprise in it. My role in his work was unknown to the public. Had he seen me in the street, he would have treated me as any stranger.”

“I imagine you were an one of the many source providers he had placed throughout the city. In that process, you came upon these stolen documents from Watson’s private files.”

“How I came upon it is irrelevant, the press will not discriminate! It is too easy to believe,” he gawked. If my medical knowledge did not contradict it, I would have sweared my blood boiled as he spoke. 

“Mr. Holmes,” Burdett started again. “Do you truly believe all I needed from you was to resign from your career to prevent me from sending this fascinating information to the media? Come now, you could not possibly be so naive.”

“Of course not,” Holmes concurred.

“How can you, Mr. Burdett, believe that Holmes and myself would ever genuinely believe that you could beat Sherlock Holmes with a simple threat of blackmail?” I hissed at the vile man. 

“Is resorting to kidnapping not an indicator of your weakness? So deeply terrified that you are swiftly led to illegal activity?”

I could not tolerate his taunting any further. The mockery of it was repulsive, and I swiftly reached into my inner jacket pocket to unveil my revolver. Burdett omitted a gasp as the barrel pointed at his skull, and I felt my heart pumping in my ears. Holmes stood solid beside me, his chest rising in my peripheral with each breath. 

“Oh dear, Dr. Watson. Do not act in haste! What is to say that I have not sent copies of your writings to every newspaper in London already? If you kill me, you must find out yourselves.”

My breath hitched, though I kept my gun steady. I looked to Holmes for reassurance, to which he merely bowed his head.

“You are bluffing,” said I. 

“And if I am not?”

“None as uncooperative as yourself will assist Holmes or I, regardless of what your true actions are. None as repulsive as you will ever deserve my saviour.”

At my final words, a force within me pulled the trigger of the revolver, releasing a bullet into the heart of Evan Burdett.

There was no positive emotion in my mind as I discharged the projectile into his chest. Even in the worst of circumstances, the ending of another individual’s life is no choice I took lightly. A pleasant ending to this story was not possible, and I understood this more as our exchange with the man continued. I looked to Holmes in the quiet, and I could do nothing but encircle my arms around him with a muffled sob. I do not cry with ease, yet no power in all the universe was able to prevent the tears from trickling down my cheeks. I was not mourning for the man I had just murdered, but rather for the life we loved so dearly seeming to crumble beneath my feet. As I bawled into my spouse’s shoulder, his palm stroking up and down the length of my back, he muttered the simplest of phrases.

“Get some rest, my love. I will handle the remaining tasks.”

As if all that was needed of him was to dust the bookshelves, rather than dispose of the evidence of my heinous crime, he accepted the responsibility with ease. I nodded against his weight, and gradually pulled away from his comforting hold. I escorted myself to our bedroom, which was blackened and heavy in its silence. I stripped away the layers of clothing, rinsed my hair of grease, and cleaned my teeth dismally, as if washing away the shame.

Oh, shame. What a perilous word, it is, and so substantial in its meaning. How it manifests itself in all of the world’s complexities, as a permanent resident among the things we as human beings are forced to acknowledge. The English are fond of rejecting its very existence, as if to pretend it shall not affect their stoic hearts. Uranian men like myself must churn it like a thick butter into our bloodstream, as if innate to our every moment of being. 

Whilst paddling through the motions of sleep preparation, as I do each night like clockwork, I felt shame welcome itself in one of its many incarnations to the forefront of my imagination’s sight. On this particular evening, it took the form of a deep, void-like purple, beyond that of the royals or the modern fashion. Its shape, that of a cylindrical bullet, piercing into the centre of my brow bone. I observed as it curled its way into me like a gas, slithering through my cerebrum, a snake in water. As it traversed through my body, more so as host rather than visitor, my mind returned to the image within our own parlour. The lifeless, emptiness that was Burdett’s body after my revolver’s projectile ended his life, and thereby ended the threat to my life, along with my husband’s. 

Husband. Yet another object of my life that shame wished to envelope and claim as its own. That a man such as myself—military, medical, educated, utterly normal in every possible way—could utter such a word to describe a man with whom he lives was, in itself, the very embodiment of my shame. And, in that truth, it is only logical for said shame to grow as I kill to save the livelihood of the man to whom that world applies. 

I had killed before this time, therefore the act was not the sole cause of this particular trauma. However, when I had previously killed, it was for the saviour of my nation. Or, perhaps, it was to protect the life of another man to whom I was obligated to keep safe by any means necessary. The action which I performed on this night was not like the ones I had done in battle. It was planned, calculated, and selfish. Not for the good of a greater cause, but to encase the truth in a deeper grave. 

Listlessly, I turned off the only remaining lit lamp within our quarters before laying myself down upon our cold, empty, bed. 

I would not sleep this night. Still, I would rest for a length of time, possibly stretching hours or minutes until I would hear, clearer than any other sound heard before it, the creaks and whispers of the man I love more than the earth itself lay beside me. 

Oh, Shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy, we've finally got some true angst on our hands haven't we? Let me know what you think of this chapter please, as your feedback means the world to me. 
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)  
> [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

Two days after the events in Englishcombe, Holmes and I were in Blackpool, along the coast. Rather than a cottage, we occupied a suite in a local inn.

I had expressed to my spouse in great detail the inner bedlam I was experiencing due to the Burdett issue. It continued to haunt my every waking thought as the days carried on, and there was no man I could turn to, that I would wish to turn to, aside from him. On the evening of the eighth of May, I opened my heart to the matter once again, over a post-dinner brandy. Our slippered feet were tangled together in the space separating our parallel armchairs when I mumbled my first thought over the rim of my glass.

“There are times,” I began feebly, “When I fear that the actions we have been required to take are more trouble than it would be to present a false life in its entirety.”

I paused, anticipating a reaction from my lover, yet all I received was a cautious caress of his foot across mine. Inhaling in a deep breath, I gained the courage to speak once more. 

“Whilst I am aware that our lives were not this way prior to the trial, and that they most likely shall not continue to be once it concludes, I cannot help but consider it. Contemplate what our lives may be if we embodied the men in my stories—the edited, manufactured copies whom the public adores. I will never be that man, yet my imagination ventures to this alternate world in which I am the ideal, normal man, the man who need not kill blackmailers to save his own livelihood. Perhaps, if I were the John Watson the London readership believe me to be, we would be in Baker Street at this very moment.”

“Watson…” Holmes consoled, reaching for my knee in his own emotion. “I assure you, from the most sincere depths of my heart, that if it were not for your uniqueness and talent, said John Watson would not exist. Alas, I cannot prevent you at any time from leaving my side, taking a wife, and producing a false life for others to welcome, if you so choose. However, we must both acknowledge in all honesty that is possible, we are not those fictitious narrations of people. How dull we would be, if our personalities were entirely based in the serials of a magazine!”

“Dull, perhaps, but there is safety in the boring,” I frowned.

Holmes sighed, “I am incapable of making your own decisions, my love. But, I was certain upon our very first meeting that you are not the type of man to accept the safe and dull before the thrilling and dangerous.”

He was right, and I opened myself up to allow eye contact as a sign of this acceptance. 

“Holmes, you must know that I will never leave your side,” I pleaded, reaching for his hands with my own. “I have these fears, yes, and my actions in Englishcombe have only added to them. But I must make certain that you do not believe this to be a lack of love or affection towards you. It has been made rather apparent to me over our years together that elongated absences from you hinder my own ability to thrive.”

The man across from me allowed a subtle smile to form upon his lips.

“The feeling is reciprocated.”

I allowed a sigh to escape, my relief making an audible imprint on the conversation. “You are the love of my life, Sherlock Holmes,” I whispered. “The terrible forces that wish to tear you from me are an evil I will do what I must to erase. Though, I would be deluded to say that those forces do not frighten me to my very core, and there will be moments like these where I will need you to pull me away from the precipice.”

My husband cupped my cheek with his right palm, bringing my gaze to meet his before pressing his lips to mine. The kiss was chaste, small, and yet tasted just somewhat of the brandy we had been sipping. Love for him radiated through my veins, each second of closeness erasing another image of recent atrocities. 

As he slowly released, my heart calmed. 

“You are the love of my life, John Watson,” he returned, and I smiled into another kiss.

—

Long after the witching hour, a dream of blood, gunfire, and Burdett’s sinister grin jerked me awake. My chest heaved as my sight was plastered to the ceiling, but mere seconds later I could feel a warm palm touch my sternum.

“It’s all right, John,” Holmes mumbled beside me. My instinctive reaction caused me to meet his hand with my own, feeling my heart racing beneath it. I realised, much too delayed, that my cheeks were dampened with tears. “I’m right here,” he spoke sluggishly, though overflowing with affection. I laced his fingers with mine as my breaths slowed, then turned my head to face his. 

Holmes’s eyes were shut, though it was evident he knew I was looking at him. A small grin peaked up on the left side of his mouth, before relaxing once more. 

“Just a bad dream,” I whispered, curling my body towards him and leaving a gentle peck on his chin.

“Right here, always,” he reiterated.

“Mhm,” I concurred, a smile quickly replacing the space of my tears. “You can go back to sleep now, my love.”

Holmes hummed into our compact shared space before we both drifted into a much less eventful rest.

—

As time demanded to pass, Holmes received a request to deal with a simple case in town. Since he was approached while alone in town, we decided it was wiser for me not to be involved. I remained at the inn as Holmes dealt with the trivial matter, so the town’s populace could assume I had not joined him in his holiday to the coast. 

On the morning of 10 May, we received a letter from Mycroft, addressed to Holmes. I elected to wait for my companion to return to open the document, though I had received permission to peer on its content before that time. That afternoon, we sat at the dining table, staring at the fateful envelope before Holmes opened it. Reading it silently, I allowed him the privacy of examining it alone at first. A moment passed, and my partner handed the document to me.

_ Sherlock, _

_ First criminal trial has concluded as of May 7, with no verdict possible. Clarke has resigned as Wilde’s counsel. Wilde is being motivated to flee to the Continent, though he likely will not do this, as I am certain you are aware. There will be, at the very least, two to three weeks between now and the start of the second criminal trial, therefore I would advise not returning to London until June at the earliest. Will send updates as they appear via telegram. _

 

  * __Mycroft__



 

A sigh escape my lips as I dropped the paper on the wooden table. 

“Why must he insist on being so stubborn?” I asked. It was not directed to Holmes, but more so to the air, the earth itself. There must have been some force at work, dictating these terrible events, so I asked them all. 

“It is impossible for me to say I do not understand his reasoning. Though it is irrational, and fueled by pride, there is little room for rationality in this time of need,” Holmes replied, almost as if the forces of the universe answered through his pragmatic voice.

“I am certain that if your twenty-nine year old self heard you say those words, he would punch you,” I said in a somewhat jesting tone, attempting to lighten the mood. 

My husband chuckled, “Yes, I do think you are right. It would be a shame if I did not change whatsoever in the fourteen years you have known me.”

“Indeed,” I jibed. His words struck a chord with my thoughts, reminding me how long I have been with the man beside me. There are married men I have known over that time who have had two, or even three wives. Yet, it is Holmes and myself who would be scrutinised for our love before them. I wished to rid my mind of these thoughts as soon as possible, so I allowed the first thought in my mind to be what was said next.

“We should walk along the new Promenade today. They are still completing the northern area, but we could walk down south.” I said to him, smiling.

Returning my affectionate glance, he replied, “Yes. Yes, that sounds rather lovely.”

Within the hour, Holmes and I were adorned in our hats and jackets—coats were rather unnecessary at the height of the afternoon—as we walked along the newly constructed Promenade, lining the Blackpool coast. Winds swirled past us, picking up the end of my brown scarf in its strength. 

My partner told me grand tales of the Anglo-Saxon tribes of the northwest; how they all filtered into the towns we know of today. We walked for hours, wrapped up in one another whilst ignoring the world around us as we discussed a variety of topics.

—

The following Monday, Holmes and myself had boarded a train to Loxley to meet our confidants, Miss Bennett and Miss Sampson. The carriage rattled along the country tracks as I peered out the window to see the farmland beyond. Holmes slept beside me, leaning upon my shoulder and breathing rhythmically. 

We arrived that evening, accepting their hospitality with ease.

“Would either of you like some wine?” Miss Bennett asked, preparing to pour into an empty glass.

“Ah, yes, that would be lovely,” I answered as Holmes nodded. She smiled, poured our drinks, and the four of us then sat in the small, charming drawing room. Conversation started with ease, floating around a litany of normal topics before anything related to our shared holiday was brought up.

“Abigail and I have been dying to know of all your adventures since last we met,” Miss Sampson said.

“I must admit, nothing of much importance has occurred whatsoever,” said Holmes. “I took a simple thievery case in Blackpool to pass the time, though Watson was unable to join me. The preponderance of our time was spent walking along the newly finished Blackpool Promenade.” I sipped on my wine, watching my companion speak.

“That sounds fantastic, sir!” the young lady said with an innocent enthusiasm.

“It truly does, Mr. Holmes. Though, I must admit, I do not fully understand why it is that you and Dr. Watson wished to visit us here,” Miss Bennett said. My husband sighed, yet it did not have the solemn tone I anticipated. He sounded all but relieved by the eradication of small talk, finally allowed to breach into the heart of the matter.

“To be rather frank with you ladies, there have been deliberate attempts as of late to breach mine and Watson’s privacy. While I cannot delve into details, let it be known that I do not break patterns easily, so the divergence from the initial plan of the four of us remaining separated until we reach London was not done on impulse. At this time, it appears that Watson and myself would be safer from scandal if we remain within your and Miss Sampson’s company, even for a short period of time.”

The young women across from us processed Holmes’s statement with care, until Miss Bennett elected to respond. I finished my wine seconds before Holmes did the same.

“Pepper and I will offer our welcome to the both of you as long as it is needed, sir. What do you from us?”

“At the moment, I wish to get some rest after our long day of travel. Tomorrow, I should like to request an outing of your choosing, so the town may see us all together. If the town of Loxley believes me to be courting you, and Watson to be courting Miss Sampson, the suspicions upon all of us will be lessened,” Holmes replied.

“Yes, of course,” our young hostess confirmed, standing up to escort Holmes and I to our room. Miss Sampson followed her friend in kind, adopting her past servant duties by fluffing our pillows as we entered. We said goodnight to the young women, who graciously closed the door behind themselves.

My spouse and I removed our jackets after one another, hanging them in the wardrobe. A long sigh exited my lips as I lay upon the double bed in the centre of the room, and Holmes followed suit beside me, turning to face me in the dim light. No conversation was required for him to begin fiddling with the top button of my shirt, making a quick work of the rest before removing my covering entirely. I took this as a hint to repeat a similar action, unbuttoning his off-white over-shirt and vest to reveal his paler, slimmer chest. 

There was nothing erotic about this shared intimate act at the moment. Alas, it could not be, given that the room adjacent to ours was occupied. However, the gentle nature of it could remain intact. We prepared one another for rest after an elongated day of train rides through northwest England, tearing away the shields our clothing embody. As we removed our trousers and pulled the quilt over us, I felt an overwhelming affection for the man who lay to my left. No space outside of the four immediate walls mattered in that moment, for my purpose of existence was beside me. 

I succumbed to sleep, wrapped in the arms of the man I love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thank you to my wonderful friend [Marden](http://www.sherlockwatson.tumblr.com) for editing this chapter for me!! I love u
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)  
>  [My upcoming book analyzing Holmes through an LGBT lens](http://www.liftingthecurtainbook.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson venture to the northeastern beaches of Cruden Bay, Scotland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry for the long wait. At the start of October, I got a new job, and was just beginning rehearsals for a production I was part of, so my schedule until recently has been crazy. My theatre work is done for now, and work has steadied, so I'm able to carve out time for this fic. I know this chapter isn't long, which I am also apologetic for, but I hope you all enjoy it. This fic is a great comfort for me and I love writing it.

By the second week of May, Sherlock Holmes and I had ventured far north to Cruden Bay on the eastern coast of Scotland. Another criminal trial loomed in London, so we ventured as far north as we dared. 

Holmes and I inhabited a cozy inn along the beach called Shearer’s Rest, in which we kept a suite. The innkeeper was a surly gentlemen of a kind disposition, with a thick, red beard and small eyes of a light blue. He was a bachelor much like myself and Holmes, adding to our overall comfort in the place. 

As time continued to pass, my spouse and I became wrapped up in a soothing domesticity. Holmes poured himself into historical studies of the local Hay clan, as well as 16th century conflict of Old Slains Castle. One particular morning, he and I sat across from one another as he told me the thrilling tale of Francis Hay’s social exile in 1594 for converting to Roman Catholicism. 

“So, they destroyed the Old Sains as a message, and a few years afterwards, he created a new one just one kilometer from the old grounds,” my husband explained as I sipped my tea.

“That sounds rather childish,” I said, chuckling. He laughed along with me, his eyes softening as they met mine.

“Yes, indeed. The Scottish high society of the late 1500’s was lacking in maturity just as the current British bureaucracy,” he commented, causing our shared laughter to raise in volume. To have conversations lack weight was a rarity I cherished during those dire circumstances.

—

The owner of Shearer’s Rest Inn was a charming, warm gentleman by the name of Innes Ferguson. His business partner and close friend, Lachlan Murray, was equally as welcoming to us, and the four of us shared many warm cups of coffee in the lounge together. It was rather evident to Holmes and myself that Murray and Ferguson were of a similar disposition to us. In brief glances and mumbled endearments, it was clear the men had a relationship that was beyond platonic.

One particular evening, after we enjoyed a dinner provided by the inn’s chef, we all nursed incredible Scottish whiskey. Holmes’s and my capacity for the beverage was unmatched to both Ferguson’s and Murray’s, both of whom were capable of consuming it in pint glasses. My polite partner and I sipped at our tumblers as we listened to their tales of past guests.

As twilight neared, our new friends wished us a good night before Holmes and I ventured upstairs. The moment our bedroom door shut, I turned to my lover and wrapped my arms around him. My mind was a bit foggy from the liquor and being around two men like ourselves only increased my affection towards this miraculous man. 

“Oh,” he muttered in quiet surprise. He returned the loving embrace, our bodies fitting together as if a puzzle now solved. There was an urgency in my actions, I felt I must be close as I could manage or the world may soon fall to pieces. “What is it?”

“We are going to survive this, I know it.”

My husband's lips curled into a smile where they rested on my head, and he pulled me in tighter. 

“Yes, I should hope you are right, my dear.”

I looked up at him from where I lay on his shoulder before kissing him, slow and careful. His lips were warm with scotch, and it swelled within me. As time passed, we found ourselves kissing one another out of our clothing and into our shared bed. 

—

The following afternoon, the two of us ventured to the chilled beach of Cruden Bay for a picnic, enjoying sandwiches and an extensive history on the nearby clans in Aberdeen and surrounding areas as told by Holmes. There were various castles we wishes to explore during our stay, and the first was the aforementioned New Slains, just south of where we had our lunch. The next day, we journeyed to Knockhall Castle, leading to a long discussion of its history from my husband. 

This particular leg of our trip away from London was easily assigned the title of most enjoyable. Little stress burdened our thoughts, as we were too far from the conflicts of the city to mind them. 

However, they were not entirely erased from all thought. 

“Holmes?” I said one evening after a day of adventures. “Sit with me.” I leaned against the threshold of his study as he peered over slides within his microscope. He straightened his back to look at me and allowed a smile to form across his cheeks. 

“All right.”

My spouse and I sat facing one another on the sofa, fire lit. I placed my palm on his knee before I spoke. 

“We mustn’t get down in our spirits about the trial, my love,” Holmes assured in soft tone. Of course he knew what occupied my mind before I admitted it myself. 

An exhale emerged from my lips, “I-it is not just that. We must be practical, Sherlock. There are measures to be taken if your predictions about this trial are correct. There are… precautions we must take in returning home aside from our arrangement with Miss Bennett and Miss Sampson. I cannot bear the thought that we return to Baker Street to a community more suspicious of us than before. What efforts can we possibly implore to insure our safety?”

Holmes averted my gaze as he covered my hand with his own. “John… I know how closely you hold your stories published to The Strand. Since our return to the London scene last year, you have been wrapped up in our own cases to release anything, but I must now ask of you something I resent. For three years, we hid away from the horrendous wrath of Moriarty, and today we face yet another threat upon our love that will require a similar, yet less extreme, departure from your publishings. If you wish to maintain our safety from the risks caused by this distasteful trial, you can no longer publicise our work within the serial stories.”

A silence overcame the room with the weight of his request. Of course I knew of its necessity. It had crossed my mind in the weeks away more than once, but now it had been spoken, made tangible and far too real. I turned my hand to entangle my fingers with his.

“I understand, my dear,” I spoke in a hush. I could have said more, of how I would willingly burn all evidence of our then 14-year partnership if it meant our safety would be guaranteed. How, at the drop of a pin I would change my name, shave my face, and dye my then greying mouse brown hair to a blond if it would assure that the man I love would be forever free from the bonds of the law. Alas, none of those actions could achieve such promises. So I kept my simple statement as I held his grasp in my own. Many moments passed before he said anything more.

“It is unfair of me to request as much as I have from you, John.” Oh, Holmes.

“Nonsense!” I shot up, keeping my voice low but sharp. “From the moment we met, I knew the man you were. We have always lived in the public eye, but much more so now due to my own selfish indulging. If anyone is at fault, it would be myself for turning you into such a public figure despite being a private detective. You cannot possibly blame yourself.”

He shook his head in disbelief, scoffing quietly at my words. 

“Our public image is only a small facet of the issue at hand, my love. In our time together, I have asked you to falsify my death for three years and conceal my whereabouts to everyone save Mycroft. I asked that you create a hoax of a wife to maintain your safety from the law. And now I sit in this suite, begging you to cease all publishing of any future cases. I have confined you to a life you would not have if I were not such a dangerous man to love.” His final sentence caused my chest to feel as if dozens of knives had pierced it. How could a man so wonderful think so little of himself? Instantly, my gaze met his and I cupped his cheek, bringing him closer to me. A wetness grew in the inner corners of my eyes as I began to speak.

“Sherlock Holmes, look at me,” I said, firm in my direction. “I met you on the 29th of January, 1881, in a laboratory of Barts. I craved mental stimulus akin to the war I had just been invalided from, and you saw this clearer than anyone. You welcomed me into your home, and your work. And, for over a decade now, you have welcomed me into your heart and your bed. The danger and compromise you speak of? The steps I have had to take to protect the man who holds my singular and purest affection? Those are not sacrifices done in vain, my love. I have made a vow to you in the privacy of our home to do whatever needed to insure your safety and happiness, and I do intend to keep it. Dangerous? You think you are too dangerous a man for me to love? When I so openly welcomed said risk the very moment I set foot into your life?”

The man in my grasp stilled, mouth somewhat agape. 

“I…” he stumbled. 

“Do not allow yourself to believe for one moment that I care more for my indulgent writings than for your own well being. I cannot accept that!”

At my raised tone, Holmes’s lips met mine. A spark shot through my chest with love for this man, and warmth spread within us both. When finally he parted from me, words cascaded from him.

“I am too frequently amazed at your dedication, my love. Forgive me for my bemusement,” he said through a timid smile. 

“You are forgiven.”

As the night carried on, we agreed that the moment we return to London, all must remain as it were. We would accept work when it arrived and do what we could to appear unaffected by the verdict. After all, we were not friends with Oscar Wilde, and Holmes was known for a lack of interest in current social and political affairs. No one in the city expected a reaction from the detective and his partner, so we would not react. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On May 25th, the verdict came in.

On the evening of the 26th of May, a knock came on our door. We were in Upper Killay, Wales, at a cozy inn in the southern part of the city. The bellboy handed me a letter, addressed to Holmes, sealed and sent from Mycroft. He wrote to us last when the second criminal trial began, which was a mere five days ago. I feared what was encased in this envelope I held, but thanked the bellboy, shutting the door in haste.

“Mycroft, as I suspected,” Holmes declared from the hall behind me. I nodded in confirmation, but neither one of us seemed to move. The paper in my grip weighed only a few grams, yet I could have easily been convinced I was holding a barbell. Something deep in my soul sensed what words were inked upon the concealed page, and it was rather evident that the man opposite me had quite the same feeling. Despite this, the world would not cease to turn even if I refused to open it, so I turned, inched towards my spouse and gave him the letter.

Holmes stared blankly at the cream coloured paper, motionless. The quiet of the room was interrupted by him ripping the top, breaking the seal on the truths concealed inside. As he unfolded the singular paper, he read the words in silence. This was not one of Mycroft’s updates he would say aloud. My partner’s face remained composed, still, and lacking any characteristic expression of which he was known for. He gestured for me to take the letter from his hand, to read the words myself, and I accepted the offer with reluctance.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_It is on the morning of Saturday, the 25th of May that I write these words. As of now, Oscar Wilde and Alfred Taylor have been convicted of gross indecency under the Criminal Defenses Act of 1885. Both have been sentenced to two years of hard labour. Justice Wills described the case as the worst he has ever tried, and the courtroom was filled with shouts of “Shame!” until Wilde and Taylor were removed from the premises._

_Neither you nor I can truly see this result as a surprise, my dear brother. I am simply a relayer of the facts, as Upper Killay is not known for its reliable London news coverage. The public here is in an uproar, and I do not recommend that yourself and Doctor Watson return here for at least one week, if not longer._

_Sincerely,_

_Mycroft Holmes_

I could not breathe. My mind had halted completely, overcome with shock. The parchment in my grasp began to shake, and I soon was cognisant that it was my hand causing it. Holmes had told me, almost two months ago now, that he knew this was to be the result. He lay next to me in the inn at Hatherleigh, and he told me of this precise course of events. And yet, I was incapable of processing the words upon the page.

It was not the conviction. That was, at most, frustrating and disappointing. Conviction was expected. What brought my thoughts to a seizing halt was the description of the court’s reaction. Of how the public shouted the heavy, far too meaningful word of “Shame.” How, in this very case, Shame had been used as evidence against Wilde’s lover and himself. How the love that dare not speak its name was meant to be beautiful, a symbol of a feeling that united men like us, now turned into a weapon. It was that one of the most prominent men in London culture was shouted out of a courtroom with this very word, sent off to a maximum sentence for being “indecent.” That the judge would mock the case itself, mocking the prisoners for wasting his time.

Then, I looked up at Holmes.

His expression was empty as he met my eyes. Despite his predictions, it was clear he was more affected than he anticipated. The silence surrounding us grew, black and vast and entangling both of us in its mist. But, my muscles were finally able to break through the stupor, and instinct took over. I wrapped myself around him, overcome with a need to be near him. He responded instantly, our breaths synced and anxious.

I wished to comfort him somehow, to be capable of finding the words to soothe his worried mind. But, if I could not calm myself, there was no possibility for me to assist him. I looked to my right to see that the curtains of the parlour windows were open, revealing the empty field outside. The darkness outside seeped into our rooms as the dim lights from within leaked into the open air. My impulses compelled me to pull away from my lover, rushing over to the windows to close the curtains, as if I was concealing the rest of the earth from our light. Anxiety rose and fell within my chest, and I turned back to Holmes once more, seeking the comfort of his presence.

“We should get some rest,” I said with a hoarse, unused voice. Holmes nodded, and we made our way to the bedroom with our hands intertwined.

We removed one another’s clothing, before washing our faces and clambering into bed. In the murk of the room, my husband’s eyes met mine, unblinking. His hand clutched my cheek, thumb running back and forth along it.

“I have never once been ashamed to love you,” he said in a hush. Of all the things he may have said to me in that moment, those words were quite possibly the least expected, yet most comforting. I covered his hand with my own, relishing in his warmth.

“Sherlock…” I mumbled with adoration as I allowed my eyes to close.

A knot formed in my chest, a physical reminder of my conflicting emotions. There was pain of the circumstances, yet undying love and need for this man before me. The world was brutal and cruel, uncaring towards those who inhabit it, but Holmes and myself could shut that world out for now. We could wrap ourselves up in one another’s proximity and ignore the hard edges and dangerous spikes of the world we lived in for the moment, so we did.

—

Thirty years have passed since the Wilde verdict, and my feelings on the matter are rather the same as then. Of course I disagree with the decision on a political level, as any sensible individual of my disposition would. But, as a man with a public image, and as someone who loved a man equally as Bohemian as Wilde, it hurt me more than most. To witness the man have such success a mere six months prior, and then suddenly lose his livelihood was nothing short of terrifying. I am fortunate given Holmes and my ability to avoid a similar fate, but it was narrowly done. In our retirement over the last twenty or so years, I have seen various redirected messages originally sent to Baker Street by suspicious, prying folk. Individuals who believe it to be their business what habits Holmes and myself practice in our own home, despite neither of us ever hearing their names before.

In all of it, we were lucky enough to have protective eyes in high places through the turn of the century, and we are now secluded enough in Sussex that it is safe to publish cases once more. It is impossible to deny, however, just how deep the roots of fear became in the years after Wilde’s imprisonment.

—

I was greeted the following morning with a horrendous nightmare of Burdett’s bloodied corpse, haunting me and startling me awake. Holmes roused beside me, reaching out to calm my mind as short breaths escaped my lips.

“John, it’s all right, my love,” he comforted in a soft tone. “I am here.”

As I returned to my senses, I was able to respond.

“I-it was Burdett again, Sherlock. I ran, and he chased me through endless hallways and I—”

“Ssh, my dear,” he whispered as he ran his palm down my side, “There are no ghosts here.”

All I could manage was a silent acknowledgement, shutting my eyes with emotional torment. I launched myself into his arms—a horizontal equivalent to my actions of the night before—as I regained my breath. Soothing affirmations lingered from Holmes’s lips and the world returned to sanity. After many moments of stillness, he spoke.

“I will start the kettle, you should have tea to soothe your thoughts,” he offered, kissing my forehead as he pulled himself from me.

“Thank you.”

The day drudged onwards despite an overwhelming need for it to cease, so Holmes and I spent much of the day indoors. We were much more affectionate that Monday in comparison to what was usual, yet it felt natural and utterly necessary.

“I will have to wire Miss Bennett the code word,” Holmes announced in the early afternoon. “Do you wish to accompany downstairs to send it?”

I looked up from my novel with a half grin, “I suppose there is no harm in it.”

The telegram to Miss Bennett read:

_I should hope you enjoy seeing my new apiary next week._

The code was sent, and within the week, the four of us would be arriving at Paddington from the same train car. Despite my yearning to return home throughout our time away from London, there was an overwhelming sorrow in my heart that I could not overcome given the current state of affairs.  

On top of the court’s verdict, there was my knowledge of the sinister crime I had committed in Englishcombe. It was self defense, yes, though a part of me sinks with the moral conflict rushing through my head. A man as vile as Burdett deserves a fate befitting of his personality, but I felt too biased to be the one responsible for that punishment. As I contemplated further, I heard the cries from the Old Bailey courtroom on the morning of May 25. Of a public shouting the oh so complex word:

“Shame!”

How its personification is that of Evan Burdett; the way it wriggles into the crevices of my soul and awakens me from all rest to haunt me, mock me.

Holmes’s fingertips on my sacrum snapped me back into reality as I realised we were back in our rooms. He was leading me through the threshold with a gentle touch.

“Is everything all right, John?” he murmured.

“O-oh. Yes… Are we going to remain here until we leave for London? Or do you have another stop available?” I inquired, quickly changing the subject.

“If you would like to leave, we may. But, there is little harm in remaining at Upper Killay until we depart for the city,” he said, running his hand up my arm to rest upon my shoulder.

“Here is… good.”

My spouse’s expression sunk with an empathetic melancholy.

“What should we have for lunch, today, dear? We can go to the place in town we saw the other day,” he offered, clear in his attempts to cheer me up. I accepted, giving him a gentle smile in return.

“Yes, that sounds wonderful.”

—

On Tuesday morning, the copy of the Times from London—that I requested from Mycroft—arrived to our suite. It was the issue from this prior Sunday, and the front page was nothing short of jarring. When one is removed from London’s press for the better part of two months, all awareness disappears, and the viewing of the first newspaper after that hiatus is quite shocking. I had followed the trial solely through reports from Mycroft, who was concise in every sense of the word. But, newspapers profit from their ability to shock the public, and a scandal of this stature was cannon fodder.

Political cartoons adorned the front page, mocking both sides in the least subtle form of subtext. Only a few paragraphs in, I decided I could no longer take it. I folded up the offensive article and shoved it into the desk in the parlour. Holmes emerged just then from his study, instantly spotting me in an irritable state.

“I did say that requesting the paper would be a mistake, John,” he reminded me.

“Yes, I know,” I sighed. “There was a small part of me that wished I would somehow be proven wrong. But the hope was rather useless.”

Holmes dropped his shoulders in sympathy and sat beside me on the sofa, leaning on my chest.

I allowed him to put his weight against me, lying down on the cushions. I wrapped my right arm around his waist, my thumb running a line along his back. His head fit in the curve of my neck, peppering soft kisses just there. Bringing my lips to his crown, I repeated a similar motion.

“I love you,” he whispered to my skin.

“I love you,” I mirrored to his forehead.

In the secret darkness of this suite, we could cherish the few remaining days we were allotted before we had to return to the life of Sherlock Holmes, the Detective, and his friend, Doctor John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Here, we could be Sherlock and John, husbands, nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my boyfriend Finnen for editing this chapter for me. I love you!
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two couples complete their final journey to Paddington after the trial has concluded, though Watson's thoughts are far from soothed.

The train rattled along the rural tracks through West England on the second of June, brash and volatile. Our first class cabin in the second carriage was decorated in reds and browns, the colours deep and instantly welcoming. Holmes perched across from me, curled around one of his many research books in the corner. I occupied myself with a Poe novel that I was re-reading for the fourth time. There was a comfort in the repetition of a story I knew the conclusion of, as the uncertainty of our outward situation made my mind restless. 

Each night since we left Englishcombe, pieces of the horrors of that evening have haunted my thoughts. There were nights in which I did not dream at all, but awoke with an edge of uncertainty in my chest. There were others where the dreams were pleasant, unrelated, and joyful, only to be turned rotten by the end. The worst of all, however, were the vivid depictions, racked with a lucidity I resented. Where I could feel the trigger beneath my left forefinger, the handle rested steady in my palm. I saw the sneer curling around his lips as he threatened me.

Holmes sensed somehow that my thoughts had turned away from the fiction before me, and he lifted his head from his readings. 

“Watson…” he murmured. “What can I do to cease these horrendous thoughts?”

A sigh pushed through my lungs as I met his expression. “I do not wish to burden you with my inner turmoil, love.” Holmes’s expression hardened at my words.

“I have committed my life to you for the last thirteen years, my boy! Your inner turmoils are precisely the business I must be burdened with!” he said, demanding more from me. “Now, John, you must know that your actions were not morally blackened by the end result. Your actions were the only remaining option left to protect yourself from social and emotional isolation, as well as criminal punishment.”

“Even if your logic is sound, Holmes, if any person were to find out the truth of my actions, I guarantee they would see it in a different light,” I said, sulking.

“That is why I will make certain no one whatsoever will discover the truth of the events that night.” At his words, Holmes moved to sit beside me, grasping my chin in his hand. “You have done more than enough to ensure my safety over the years, John. This is the least I can offer you.” 

I averted his gaze for a moment, conflicting emotions pulling at the threads in my mind. 

“Thank you,” was all I said. My partner peered up at the window of our cabin to insure it was covered by the privacy curtain before drawing me in for a kiss. After he parted from me, he spoke once again.

“I have come to a conclusion as to what precise measures we should take when individuals may ask of our travels these past two months.”

“Oh?”

“Whilst publications of cases would be in poor judgement, I do think it would be suspicious if you no longer wrote up case files for your records. Therefore, there should be at least one or two cases dated during this time period in case anyone wishes to know what occupied us. It will be of no harm to anyone if we created some false cases to avert the public, don’t you agree? Of course, the case files would not be published at the moment, but if we ever feel safe enough to do so again, people may want a record of that time. Make certain that the records are of jobs outside the city, primarily in the countryside. What do you say?”

“Well, I cannot see any harm in it. I may draw some inspiration from our journeys, but will insure the core facts and titles are altered,” I agreed.

“Yes…” Holmes said, resting his palm on my thigh. “Yes I do think that will go over well.”

I could not help the grin that came over my expression, “I did not know you enjoyed plotting my writings with such care as you are showing now, my dear.”

Colour came over his cheeks in embarrassment, “It would be dishonest to claim I am not somewhat intrigued by the tales you sell to the magazines. I do, on occasion, enjoy a touch of the dramatic.”

“On occasion, you say?” I teased as my grin only grew. “There are some times in which I believe it is your favourite part.”

Holmes returned my smile with a side glance, fueled by a slight flirtatious energy. 

“You are ridiculous, my love,” I confessed, causing my spouse to convey an artificial shock. 

“How dare you say such things, Doctor Watson!” he spewed, bringing his hand up to his heart in a theatrical display. I could not help but combust into a fit of laughter at his absurdity, curving my body towards him and resting my shaking head upon his shoulder in my amusement. He soon followed suit, his head falling parallel to mine. 

—

In the mid-afternoon, we reached our final transfer to the train that would take us to Paddington Station. Before we boarded, we had to find Miss Bennett and Miss Sampson at the station. According to Holmes’s detailed schedule, they were to arrive at the connecting station just ten minutes after us. So, we sat on a nearby bench until they disembarked. They arrived as was expected, and Miss Sampson spotted us first. 

“Mr. Holmes!” she cheered over the sounds of people passing by. In her typical fashion, she embraced Holmes with specific enthusiasm and he returned the gesture. Miss Bennett and I shared a more relaxed greeting before Miss Sampson met me with a similar excitement. 

“When does our train leave?” Miss Bennett asked Holmes.

“In…” he glanced at his watch, “Four minutes.”

“You both have all your luggage, correct?” I asked. The women nodded in confirmation. “Well, we should be off in just a moment, then!”

The four of us boarded the final train, had our luggage taken care of, and ventured to our cabin. As we settled within the space we would occupy for the next few hours, the reality of everything crashed into me. Holmes and I had not seen Baker Street in over two months, now accustomed to temporary lodgings in the small countryside villages of the United Kingdom. In mere hours, we would return to our old life, destined to pretend the events of our time away were meaningless. When we depart this carriage into the streets of London once more, there would be no talk of the Wilde trial within 221 Baker Street’s walls. The world would continue to spin, and our lives would carry on.

There was a twisted nastiness to it all that my soul could not bear as I stared out the window at the rolling countryside. How cruel this world must be to force hundreds of well meaning citizens to hide within the shadows of their bedrooms, afraid of any implications the public may latch onto. 

My gloom was disrupted by Holmes’s hand upon my wrist, gentle in guiding me out of the darkness of my thoughts. We said nothing as the train rhythmically pulsed along, taking us home. 

—

We emerged from the carriage into Paddington Station, Miss Sampson in my arm, Miss Bennett in Holmes’s. We collected our bags and ventured to the street to find a cab. Holmes had a remarkable ability to call a handsom at record speed anywhere in London, and this was a time his skill was beyond a necessity. The plan was that we would all first go to Baker Street to give the impression that the young women were either our clients or our romantic interests, then send the young girls to their new lodgings in the evening. 

The entryway of our home felt warm and substantial, packed full of significance as we wandered through the threshold. A wave of emotion came over me as I looked toward the seventeen stairs leading up to suite B of 221 Baker Street, the place my love and I so wished to return to for the last 60 days. Before we could make our way up, however, we were greeted by a cheery Mrs. Hudson.

“Mr. Holmes! Dr. Watson! You have returned at last!” she shrilled, pulling me into a well deserved hug. 

“You have no idea how pleased we are to see you, Mrs. Hudson,” I said, returning her gesture. “Holmes doted on your delicious dinners at least a dozen times in our absence, I think,” I continued, giving my spouse a teasing glance.

“Nonsense!” he retorted, “Though I will say, my home lab is much improved to the smaller, makeshift ones of the countryside suites.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes…” she groaned, embracing him in a false reluctance that I empathised with all too much. As she pulled away, she was then able to raise question as to the identity of our guests. “Now who might these young ladies be?”

“Abigail Bennett,” she introduced herself as she extended her hand to shake. “Pleased to have your acquaintance, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Ah, lovely, Miss Bennett!” our housekeeper replied. “And you are?” she inquired to the girl beside me.

“Pepper Sampson,” she offered in a similar manner to her partner. “Charmed, madam.”

“They are clients of ours, you see,” Holmes beguiled with ease. “We returned to Baker Street to complete their complicated business, so we shall retire to our suite to do so if you do not mind. They will be joining us for dinner as well.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hudson curtsied in her old fashioned manner, freeing us to the trek upstairs. “I will begin working on dinner immediately, sir!”

The entryway was an overwhelming sight in and of itself, but nothing could quite prepare me for seeing 221 B for the first time since the second of April. Much in her typical fashion, the room was recently tidied by our faithful landlady, much to the chagrin of my living partner. Our sofa had Holmes’s favourite throw blanket draped over the back as it often was, the chairs beside the fireplace angled toward one another as was destined. Holmes’s desk, cluttered as always, was adorned with papers, folders, his Stradivarius, and other various items. The women accompanying us had no inclination of the importance of these rooms, nor the bittersweet emotions of returning to them. 

I glanced up at Holmes to see the complex expression on his face. Taking advantage of the now safe company, I stole his hand into mine and gave it a light squeeze to ease his thoughts. Whilst the world outside was in a chaotic spin, Baker Street remained standing and largely untouched. 

“P-please… take a seat, ladies,” Holmes stumbled, gesturing to the sofa and making a swift motion towards his chair. I sat in my own, and the four of us now had to move onto the next topic.

“So, Mr. Holmes, you mentioned I would be working in a hat factory, correct?” Miss Bennett clarified.

“Yes, that is true. My brother, Mycroft, has made arrangements for you there. Miss Sampson, you will be under the guise of being Miss Bennett’s servant, and you will be supplemented as such for the next six months as the two of you gain financial traction. If any trouble arises, please do not hesitate to contact myself or Watson.”

“Oh, I truly cannot thank you enough. Everything you have done to aid us is more than enough… that you would offer even more is astonishing,” Miss Bennett said.

“The both of you have done your fair share of sacrificing over these months, miss. We are grateful beyond measure to you as well,” I said in an affirming tone. 

“It is of no sacrifice to me to help those in need, ladies. It is my job, and you are some of my most trusted clients. Now, I believe I have a delicious French bordeaux in the liquor cabinet that the four of us should most certainly indulge in before our meal,” Holmes said, floating across the room.

We sipped our glasses of wine together, chatting and sharing stories of times long past. These women were younger than us by almost twenty years, yet there was an ease and familiarity to our friendship with them rather unlike the heterosexuals of our own time. 

Some time later, Mrs. Hudson tapped upon the door with a gorgeous meal for us to enjoy. Mince pies with potatoes and steamed vegetables on the side, and lovely chicken breasts to accompany it all. Holmes brought out a bottle of Spanish red to pair with the meal and the conversations continued to flow.

“You read A Study in Scarlet when you were how young?” I asked Miss Bennett as I processed the significant age gap between us.

“I must have been only thirteen at the time if you published it at the end of ‘87, is that right?”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose it is. Seven years it’s been, Holmes, is that not remarkable?”

“My objections at the time have even more basis than before it seems, you were corrupting the innocent minds of young girls with your romanticised writings!” he replied with a teasing air and a smile on his lips.

“I imagine it is my fault then that you turned to the company of women, then?” I asked her.

“Ah, yes, it is solely your responsibility Dr. Watson!” she quipped, causing everyone at the table to burst into an abundance of giggles. 

“Did you, Miss Sampson, hear word of Watson’s frivolous novel when you were growing up with Miss Bennett?” Holmes inquired.

“She did not confess it to me without prevarication, though she could not stop rereading the second chapter where Dr. Watson detailed how infatuated he had become with you,” our other guest admitted.

“I did tell you, my dear, that it was a bit too blatant,” Holmes taunted as he gave my hand a kind tap.

The banter was light hearted and full of care for the people in our company, but a dark place in my mind wished to take ownership of it. My inability to keep certain details of Holmes and my first meeting may hold dire consequences, and my heart grew cold with concern.

“Dr. Watson, are you alright?” Miss Sampson asked across the table. 

“Yes, of course!” I fibbed. “I seem to have been lost in my own thoughts for a moment there, that is all.”

“Ah, that can be a dangerous game, my love,” Holmes murmured in a knowing whisper, placing his hand upon my thigh, out of sight. “Now, it appears we have all finished eating. Shall we have one final glass amongst us before going out to your new lodgings?” His clear attempts to change the subject warmed me once again.

“That would be marvelous, Mr. Holmes,” Miss Bennett affirmed. 

“After this adventure we have experienced together, I do think official titles are not all that necessary, ladies. Do feel free to refer Watson and myself without them if you so wish,” Holmes offered.

“Oh, why thank you! The two of you are allotted the same privilege for Pepper and myself, I should think,” Bennett replied, turning to her partner for a quick-received confirmation. We shared smiles towards one another as we drank our final glasses of wine, and there were brief moments in our evening where I allowed myself to forget the horrors outside our door. As I looked to Holmes by my side, I felt my love for him deepen and my happiness soar.

It was rather late by the time we journeyed to our guests’ new home. Still in Westminster, the apartment was charming and befitted two bachelorettes recently moved to London. The elder Holmes brother had prepared the bedrooms with the typical furniture of a servant’s quarters and a double bed for the primary room, though all parties were fully aware only one bed would be in use. 

Holmes and myself helped Bennett and Sampson with getting their things settled before saying our goodbyes and sharing gratitude once again. On the cab ride back to Baker Street, my partner and I were alone for the first time all evening. 

“Is your mind at ease, Watson?” he asked, wrenching my thoughts out of the clouds. 

“Mmm,” I hummed in false confirmation. Holmes saw through it in an instant, as of no surprise to me.

“I will not force you to explain your turmoil, dear, though I cannot promise I will not search for the truth myself.”

I turned to him in silence and entwined my fingers in his. A moment like this was rare, as I often feared someone may peer in to see our affection, but I could not help myself. I squeezed his palm with mine for just a brief second before pulling away, an attempt to say the words I could not dare utter at the moment:

_ I love you, and I am petrified that we would be utterly free of danger if it were not for my own selfish indulgences in The Strand. _

_ I love you, and I despise the fact that we have lost time in our home together due to the laws of this land. _

_ I love you, and I blame myself for that. _

_ I love you, and I am sorry. _

As I expected of him, my message was received in seconds. Rather than a forgiving expression, or one of empathetic sorrow, Holmes’s brow furrowed in confusion. In that very moment, we arrived back to 221, paid for our fare, and made a quick work of getting up to our rooms. As the door shut behind us, Holmes began to speak. Not in the angry, booming voice that I anticipated, however, but in a voice rattled with deep hurt.

“How could you possibly blame yourself for the time we have lost here?”

“I… This is your home, Sherlock. You were ripped from it due to our public image, that which we would not possess if it were not for me.”

There was a heavy, full, pause between us. My partner looked at me with an indiscernible air about him, and my chest twisted. After a minute, he approached me and brought his grip to my bicep, firm and decisive in his movement. 

“John Watson… Do not allow yourself to believe for even one half of a second that you are the cause of any of my plight. I cannot allow you to believe that, as it is most definitely untrue.”

“But, Holmes, I—”

“No! Nonsense! John…” his tone was hushed as his other palm cupped my cheek. “Any danger we may be in does not rest on your shoulders alone. Your actions were that of admiration and love, and I refuse to allow you to blame yourself for any harm that comes my way. I have paved the stones of my life this way with intention, and if I believed your past stories to be a hinderance to our public safety, then I could find methods to mend that. It is my hands what is done with my reputation, and it is not something you can hold yourself accountable for.”

“I am incapable of feeling no responsibility for you, Sherlock! When we walk through London together, the public views me as your biographer. Your image rests on how I choose to portray you to the world, and if that in any way leads to your punishment, I will not be able to live with myself!” Emotion overcame me in a manner of which it had not yet in our entire journey. Tears began to cascade down my face and I bowed my head to rest it upon Holmes’s shoulder in agony.

“Oh, Watson…” Holmes murmured as he wrapped himself around me. Sobs escaped me at a steady pace until a few minutes later I felt a dampness on my neck where my lover’s own head lie. A sense of worry took over as I tilted my gaze up to meet him. 

“Now why are you in tears?” I asked with a softness I could not disguise. I wiped away the wetness on his cheeks with care.

“For two months we were on guard every day, so my emotions seem to have bubbled to the surface,” he replied all too mechanically. I could see the truth behind it, though. The unspoken words masked in each drop of water from our eyes. 

“It seems you will have to grow accustomed to me feeling responsible for you, my love,” I said.

“It seems you will have to grow accustomed to rather the same from me, my dear,” he returned, hoarse with deep feeling.

As we held one another in our parlour, the exhaustion of the day’s travels reached us. Neither Holmes nor myself had seen our bedroom in weeks, so we elected to walk to the door hand-in-hand, together as we crossed into our shared space. It was as it should be—the bed made, the curtains closed, the wardrobes matching though not identical. The water basin we used for shaving was bare of any marks, appearing untouched as it had been. The oil lamps that sat on either side of our bed were stone cold, but clear of dust from Mrs. Hudson’s aggressive cleaning regiment. We did not bother to light them, but rather we walked to our respective wardrobes and performed our nightly ritual of disrobing one another. It was not explicit in any fashion, but an intimacy we allowed ourselves in the privacy of our bedroom. Once we were properly adorned in our sleepwear, I tilted Holmes’s face down towards mine to meet his lips in a tender kiss. 

Our bed welcomed us with its familiar creaks that we had grown to know over our many years with it, and our bodies fit around each other as if made to do just that. Small kisses were exchanged between us with ease, a game to see who would be the first to give up and let sleep take over. Before rest finally consumed me, I heard the faintest words.

“I love you,” Sherlock Holmes whispered.

“I love you,” I whispered back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow!! Only one chapter left to go!! The twelfth will be a fast forward into Holmes and Watson's lives 30 years after the Wilde verdict, so I truly hope you all have enjoyed the 11 chapters of this story so far. I want to write more fics in the future about other aspects of their timeline, so please let me know if that is something you would be interested in.
> 
> Gear up for the last chapter, it will be out soon!
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr!](http://www.dandyholmes.tumblr.com)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the epilogue of this tale, we come upon a retired Watson, detailing his life with Holmes since the conclusion of Wilde's trials and incarceration. Told primarily through flashbacks, we see how these two men not only survived their lives together, but thrive in a beautiful, simple, contentment.

The year now is 1925, and as I retell this story of our two month long departure from London, I sit in the study of our East Sussex villa, far from the city’s limits. As was told in “His Last Bow,” Sherlock Holmes retired to Sussex at the end of 1903. What is untrue is that I abandoned him to another wife. We have lived in this village for over two decades now, yet I have been recounting our life in Baker Street at a consistent pace since our retirement. The memories are not far from us due to my rigorous notating and Sherlock’s dense records. 

Rather than the backstreets of central London serving as our garden, we now have a pervasive field behind our humble cottage, composed of a rather cumbersome assortment of flowers as well as the beehives. About eleven years ago, we adopted our setter pup who we gave the name of Gladstone. He provides us with pleasant company and a reason to leave the house for walks along the countryside. Whilst I have published notes of Sherlock’s love and appreciation for beekind, I have elected to leave out his affection for canines. 

“I could not justify keeping one at Baker Street!” he had said to me one day before the Great War. “I was far too busy with detective work, and our rooms could not accommodate for the energy of a dog. It would have been akin to torture to attempt to keep it there, so I knew I must wait until my retirement.”

“Ah, so you admit you have always planned to retire,” I taunted. 

He had made the ordeal so complicated at the turn of the century. I brought up our potential retirement from the consultant detective career in the early months of 1902, but he was appalled by the suggestion. 

“I have not even reached fifty, John, I find it preposterous to suggest such a notion.”

“This is not a typical profession, my dear. Your constitution can only tolerate so much battery before it eventually gives out,” I said. The words were unpleasant for him to digest, I knew, but they had to be spoken.

“My physique is quite healthy, I will have you know.”

“I am fully aware, do not fret…” 

The conversation shifted to a rather separate subject much to my chagrin, and I was incapable of bringing it up again for months.

It was not until the events of “The Adventure of the Three Garridebs” in which Sherlock elected to bring up retirement on his own accord. 

These discussions are fresh in my mind despite being decades ago, long passed into the records of our lives together. As I write this, Sherlock is tending to his bees outside as Gladstone skips along at his heel. I can see them through our study window, far off though still visible next to the bright white of the hives. 

Another truth from “His Last Bow” is that of Sherlock’s absence from Sussex for some time in the years leading up to the war, though it was also somewhat different than what was written. He was asked by the British government to assist in some top secret work involving their conflict with the German empire leading up to the declaration of war. However, I was also asked for to provide some assistance myself. As a veteran of the Afghan war and a Captain in my many regiments, they felt my input would be beneficial in Sherlock’s work, and I was happy to do it. My spouse was a bit more reluctant in accepting the position, though my inclusion helped aid his choice. He was—and still is—not one to endorse violence in the name of politics, and finds war repulsive. I cannot say I disagree with the man, as my experience of it was far from graceful. More than anything, he wishes to avoid politics altogether, stating that it is a manifestation of all that is wrong with society. This particular job, however, was intriguing enough to his personal interests for him to allow it. 

When we returned from our work, we basked in domesticity unlike ever before. Too many times in our lives we had been taken from the warmth of home into dangerous environments or circumstances. Since then, we have determined to remain at our own homestead. 

In regards to our lives immediately following the Wilde trials, it was rather business as usual. We continued to work for over eight years, in which we were quite successful. I released  _ The Hound of the Baskervilles  _ in 1901 through serials due to the outcry over my hiatus from publishing. My readership appeared to accept it well enough that I could get away with giving nothing to  _ The Strand  _ for another two years, just before Sherlock and myself left for Sussex Downs. After the migration southeast, we felt the seclusion was enough to insure our safety from the piercing eyes of London. 

Even with the consideration of our careful planning, appreciation from the press and government figures, and more, I cannot say Sherlock and my escape from persecution came with ease. There were the occasional moments in which we would receive a letter in the post from an unsavoury source.

“Holmes?” I had called out from the parlour. He was in the study, working with dilligence on a commonplace experiment. 

“Hm?” he hummed, prepared to only give me a fraction of his attention. 

“There is another letter.” Without pause, my partner rushed into the sitting room and stole the document from my grip. He read it in haste, examining every mark of ink. After the moment he took to process it, Sherlock looked down at me.

“To our luck, the threat holds no weight. I will put it where it belongs,” he stated, tossing the paper into the centre of the fireplace with a  _ flick.  _

“Are you certain? One never truly can be with these things.” Sherlock sighed and reached for my hand.

“I can assure you, my dear, it is the least of your concern.”

His promises all maintained, and still have. Had we not retired when we did, though, I fear the comments and threats would have gained traction. When you live with a man for over twenty years—whether the public thinks I was married is irrelevant, as I was rather poor at maintaining the lie—people will inevitably become suspicious. Holmes had dismissed the majority of them until Inspector Lestrade was confronted with one at the start of the new century. 

“Holmes,” he began, sat in our home. “I received a rather odd note at Scotland Yard the other day.”

“Do elaborate, Lestrade.”

“It was a telegram from a writer at The Guardian, asking about the both of you being…”

“Being what, man?” Sherlock pushed, though the knot within my stomach told of the answer.

“Well, you see, he didn’t really say it. He asked if I was aware of the fact that you and Watson have lived together for many years now, and if I found that… odd.”

“And do you find it odd, Inspector?”

“I’ve come to expect with you, Holmes, that everything is rather odd,” was all he had said.

It became clear to myself and Sherlock towards the end of our careers that Scotland Yard had been far more discreet than we allotted them credit for. Hopkins, Gregson, and Lestrade were the inspectors we worked with on a regular basis, and all of them had seen their fair share of “odd” things, as they may call them. I am certain that the conversation recounted above would not have ended so seamless in it contents had Lestrade not been so appreciative of all Sherlock had done for them over the years. Their dedication to us was evident in every action, but those small niceties were the most clear. 

—

Moving past the complex nature of our old life in London, I feel it safe to say that Sussex suits us well in our old age. I offer my assistance at a local bookstore from time to time, often met by readers of mine who ask me a myriad of questions about Sherlock and specific moments of stories I published many years ago. The ample amount of my time now, though, is spent with him. 

The fictional detective, the stoic and aloof Mr. Sherlock Holmes, is a small percentage of my husband’s complex self. There are moments in which that side of him wins over, in times of negative emotion or intense focus, though that has become less and less frequent in occurence as he has aged. In his truest form, he is simple, yet fascinating. Composed, yet reckless. Romantic, yet logical. So often a contradiction within himself that a common man may have difficulty in understanding him, but he is worth it, beyond a doubt. As I pray it has been made clear in this story, Sherlock is a sensitive man who is often struck with emotional intensity he does not know how to manage. He is a loving husband, a caring mentor, and a man of strong moral fibre. Beyond that, he is the sole human being on this earth that I love with my whole heart.

One morning in our cottage some years ago, the three of us—Gladstone included—curled up on our sofa as the phonograph played a soothing ballad. Rain pattered outside, complementing the crackles of the fireplace, and the warmth of the man beside me added to the bliss of the environment.

“The latest case you published, ‘The Dying Detective,’” he began as if there was an end to his statement, though he trailed off into silence.

“What of it, dear?”

Sherlock blinked through his thought, as if he did not realise that his statement was incomplete. 

“It was… different than what I am used to reading from you. Not in a negative manner, mind you, just different.”

“That is the precise reason I chose to publish it. The unique set of circumstances was intriguing, and enough time has passed since, that I imagined our readership could enjoy it without harm,” I said, afraid I may have caused concern to him in that area given the contents of the story.

“Harm is not what occupies my thoughts, John. It is the way in which you wrote the case, or moreover the lack of one. As if you were not documenting the case, but documenting us,” he contemplated, a blank expression still clouding his face. I could not dissect his meaning quite yet.

“What is it, my love?”

“That case occurred many decades ago now, back in the… mid-eighties was it not? Our romantic partnership was… rather fresh in our minds at the time. I was young, healthy, and managed to convince you that I succumbed to this horrific ailment. It was unknown to me how it affected you so,” he confessed, meeting my eyes after leaving me with nothing up until this point.

“Of course it affected me, Sherlock! It would have been impossible to leave me in any other state. You are aware I cannot cope seeing you suffer, certainly.” I ran my hand up and down in a steady motion along his arm. I recollected a piece of dialogue from the case, that which I am incapable of forgetting due to the chill that ran through me as I elected to keep it within the final draft. The sole moment in my writings thus far in which Detective Sherlock Holmes said the forbidden word of  _ love. _

_ Quick, man, if you love me! And don’t budge, whatever happens—whatever happens, do you hear? Don’t speak! Don’t move! Just listen with all your ears. _

“Perhaps now, yes. But, at the time I—I thought you were cross with me. For lying to you.”

“Flustered, a bit perhaps, but not cross. I understood your methods, twisted as they may have been, and by the end I felt I could breathe once again. To see you in such a state…” I trailed off for a brief moment, remembering his almost lifeless form, frail from days of fasting. His bones creaked in a way that has now become familiar, but was all too jarring to hear from the body of a man in his thirties. I came back to the present, seeing the well aged man before me, thankful for his remarkable survival after years of flirting with danger. Sherlock held me in a tighter grip, welcoming my mind back from its flashback and offering a silent apology.

“The story was in my top five, without doubt, John,” Sherlock stated. I must have made a confused face at him, as he continued to justify himself. “Your determination to cure my—ultimately false—illness was admirable. You refused any answer outside of ‘yes’ from Smith’s butler, and listened to no man’s instruction outside of my own. I had not seen those incidents first hand, and I was unaware of your unadulterated dedication to helping me.”

A place deep within my chest ached in a familiar way, though less with sorrow and more with empathy. Oh, how little this magnificent man knew of what I have always thought of him. How, after all these years together, it took a story published to the rest of the world for him to know the intricacies of my love for him. How a man so magnificent and miraculous could be stunned at the knowledge of someone else’s affection for him. My heart could not take the endearing nature of it all, and I did nothing to respond other than meet him in a decisive kiss. He froze for a second in surprise, but responded in kind, placing a palm along the curve of my cheek.

“I have been dedicated to you for many years, Sherlock Holmes. I will always be dedicated to you,” I spoke in a soft voice against his lips. The ache in my chest became a fluttering feeling in my stomach, ever present all these years past.

In more recent days, we have fallen into a welcomed routine. We walk Gladstone in the mornings before breakfast, return to the cottage to be greeted with a meal made by our discreet servant, the apprentice of none other than Miss Pepper Sampson. Her name is Lottie, and she assisted us for our last two years in London, insisting upon following us to Sussex despite the distance, as she adored the countryside. We offered a greater income as the grounds are significantly larger, and she occupies the ground floor bedroom. Sherlock’s love of beekeeping and gardening has made her job simpler, and she has found a friend in town with whom she spends much of her time off with. A charming young woman by the name of Jacqueline Thompson, she has joined us for meals on occasion. Lottie is akin to a daughter for Sherlock and myself in some ways, in the closest way men such as ourselves are capable of having a child. Her company for these years has prevented us from becoming isolated in entirety, so it is beneficial for us all. 

After breakfast, Sherlock will check on the bees and the flowers, Gladstone often following him. If I do not join them, I am found reading the paper, a book, chatting with Lottie, or helping her clean, or in the case of this morning, I am writing this very book. 

Sherlock and Gladstone have returned inside for now, and I was greeted with warm hug from behind and a kiss on the ear before he left me to my privacy. 

Even in my utter and pure contentment here in Sussex, there are times in which I consider the trial of Oscar Wilde, and the months away from the city in which my husband and I lived in fear. I prefer those memories in the comfort of this story as opposed to the unruly terror of reality. My opinions on the man’s conviction, sentence, and rather prompt death in 1900 are complex and mixed both with political and personal input. To be mild, I believe the concerns of the Marquess of Queensberry did not justify police court involvement, and were better studied on a scientific and medical level as opposed to a judicial one.

To be severe, however, I find that his incarceration was a practice of secondhand murder by the United Kingdom, and I am incapable of forgiving it. I have served this country for many years, and in the past some referred to me even as a patriot. It is safe to say that over my years, my care for England has diminished significantly, though a glimmer of hope attempts to poke out from under the surface of my heart, and I pray for a world in which such punishments are not only non existent, but worthy of criticism. Sherlock claims that such hope may be wasted, and to be cautious in my optimism, and I cannot say I disagree with him. However, there is a place in my soul where I know men such as myself, or Sherlock Holmes, or Oscar Wilde, do not leave behind legacies of death and sin, but I am uncertain when that place may become a reality.

Perhaps, when this safety deposit box is opened in the next half a century or more, that reality may be nearer to us. Perhaps not. This story written within these pages may never grace the eyes of the public due to the risks being too high, and that is the way of things. My heart yearns for a future far removed from that possibility, though. A future in which my love for Sherlock Holmes is evident and present to all who read my words, and it is worthy of celebration. Perhaps, though, that is too arrogant of me, too ambitious. For now, I am a daydreaming old man, finishing this tale here to return to the arms of the man I hold dear to my soul, and speaking to readers who will not see this until I am long dead. 

Perhaps, one day, the true story may be told.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh BOY it's the last chapter of this, I'm a bit in shock honestly! This was without doubt my favorite thing to write ever. Never have I had such pure enjoyment and ease in my writing experience as I did with TGaOC, and the end is rather bittersweet. The last work I did was something I did to mend my mixed emotions and wrap up loose ends, but this is a story done out of a necessity to get it onto the page. 
> 
> I hope that this was enjoyable for all of you reading as it was for me writing it. These characters mean the world to me, and this part of their story is the closest to my heart compared to all the rest. Whether you play the Sherlockian Game with the canon timeline like I do, or just enjoy these two being soft with one another, please let me know how you felt about this subject matter and the way I told this story. 
> 
> Also, please feel free to pick my brain about timeline stuff literally any time at all, it's my favorite topic of canon theory ever.
> 
> As I finished this chapter up, I got more emotional about it than I thought I would. The catharsis of their lives and circumstances throughout this story came directly from my heart in so many ways, and I cannot begin to say how much they mean to me. I hope that was clear from the reader's point of view.
> 
> Thank you to all of you who have followed this through my writing journey and dealt with the hiatuses at times, it means the world to me. I have another story concept in the works after this one, so I hope to not be gone for long!
> 
> \- Phoenix


End file.
